UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


'n- 


THE  CHASTE  WIFE 


FRANK  SWINNERTON 


THE  CHASTE  WIFE 


BY 
FRANK  SWINNERTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "ON  THE  STAIRCASE," 
"THE  HAPPY  FAMILY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1917, 
BY  GEOBGE  H.  DOBAN  COMPANY 


PBINTED   IN   THE    UNITED   STATES   OF   AMEBICA 


TO 

Mrs.  and  P.  P. 

WITH  THE  WISH  THAT  IT 
HAD  BEEN  MORE  WORTHY 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE:  THE  STORY  OF  THE 
SCRUPULOUS  LOVER 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.   Crimson  Roses n 

II.  What  Dorothy  Knew 33 

III.  Steps  Towards  Light 52 

IV.  Considerations 75 

V.  An  Unexpected  Visitor 89 

VI.   Stephen  Alone 103 

VII.   Ordeals 116 

VIII.   Tea  with  the  Moores 134 

PART  TWO:    THE  STORY  OF  THE 
HUSBAND'S  PROGRESS 

IX.   The  Day  of  Promise 151 

X.   Three  Letters 168 

XI.   Epitome 179 

XII.   Visitors  at  the  Cottage 211 

XIII.  Confidences 226 

XIV.  Stephen's  Narrative 241 

XV.  Afterwards 253 

PART  THREE:    THE  STORY  OF  THE 
CHASTE  WIFE 

XVI.    Dread 265 

XVII.   Directions 277 

XVIII.   The  Trough  of  the  Wave 290 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  Tolerance  .....' 302 

XX.  Roy  in  Trouble 313 

XXI.  Straws 327 

XXII.  Minnie 335 

XXIII.  Danger 343 

XXIV.  The  Danger  Unmasked 354 

XXV.  Parental  Solicitude 364 

XXVI.  Hilary 378 

XXVII.  Priscilla's  Journey 388 

XXVIII.  The  Old  Man 399 

XXIX.  The  Last 407 


PART  ONE 

THE  STORY  OF 
THE  SCRUPULOUS  LOVER 


CHAPTER  I:   CRIMSON  ROSES 


IT  was  a  very  hot  day  in  the  middle  of  summer.  The 
sky  was  cloudless,  and  as  Priscilla  lay  in  the  ham- 
mock under  a  big  mulberry-tree  she  seemed  to  hear  the 
whole  garden  droning  with  the  busy  song  of  bees,  bum- 
bling as  it  were  with  satisfaction  at  a  harvest  so  happily 
plentiful.  Near  to  Priscilla  were  two  young  men,  both 
of  whom  were  in  flannels,  as  though  they  either  had  been 
playing  or  were  about  to  play  tennis.  Two  racquets  had 
been  tossed  aside  upon  the  grass;  and  a  little  farther 
away,  through  a  screen  of  bushes  (favourable  cover  for 
the  adroitly  self-losing  tennis  balls),  could  be  seen  a 
delectable  lawn  upon  which  the  single  court  had  been 
marked  out  and  a  net  erected.  But  the  two  young  men 
made  no  stir  in  the  direction  of  their  game — the  one  be- 
cause he  was  in  love  with  Priscilla,  the  other  because  he 
was  an  unusually  lazy  person — and  continued  to  lounge 
in  the  wicker  chairs  which  offered  such  shady  harbour- 
age. All  three  seemed  to  be  drowsy,  lost  in  the  lulling 
sweetness  of  the  afternoon  heat.  There  were  many 
flowers  in  the  sunny  part  of  the  garden  :  the  scent  of  them 
was  heavy,  as  thickly  mingled  as  the  morning  choruses 
of  birds  which  awakened  Priscilla  each  day.  Romeo,  a 
little  cat,  toyed  fancifully  with  a  crawling  insect  upon  a 
neighbouring  path. 

Priscilla,  in  her  barely  stationary  hammock,  listened 
idly  to  the  sounds  of  the  garden.  Her  brother  David 
watched  the  thin  stream  of  smoke  drift  from  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe.  Hilary  Badoureau,  who  lay  so  far  back  in 
his  chair  that  his  head  was  little  higher  than  his  knees, 
frowned  in  a  sort  of  smiling  ecstasy.     All  three  were 

ll 


12  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

happy  and  untroubled,  enjoying  the  day  and  the  hour 
and  the  peace  of  the  garden.  Only  Romeo  relaxed  none 
of  the  intentness  of  the  chase,  but  pursued  his  creeping 
victim  with  a  palatable  sense  of  power  felt  only  by  the 
simple-minded  and  the  unmoral.  In  some  such  tranquil 
hour  must  the  Sleeping-  Beauty  and  her  retinue  have 
fallen  under  the  spell  which  had  so  happy  an  issue. 

In  a  moment  Priscilla's  eyes  strayed  to  the  path  upon 
which  hunting  was  in  progress. 

"That  horrible  Romeo's  torturing  an  insect.  Romeo! 
Leave  it  alone!" 

Romeo's  ears  acknowledged  the  call;  but  his  activity 
did  not  pause. 

Badoureau,  who  had  looked  up  at  Priscilla's  speech, 
smiled  at  the  result. 

"Romeo's  not  like  a  cat,"  he  remarked  idly.  "He's 
more  like  a  friend." 

"He's  got  ears  like  a  horse,"  Priscilla  declared. 

"But  much  larger,"  added  David. 

Romeo  was  obviously  discomposed  by  these  remarks; 
but  he  struggled  to  maintain  an  air  of  nonchalant  dis- 
regard. When  his  effort  provoked  their  laughter,  how- 
ever, he  turned  and  uttered  a  sharp  protest. 

"Well,  leave  the  little  thing  alone,"  called  Priscilla. 

Unwillingly,  but  in  a  way  which  suggested  that  he 
understood  what  had  been  said,  Romeo  left  the  path  and 
came  across  the  intervening  space,  until,  making  a  wide 
detour  in  order  to  avoid  the  young  men,  he  was  able  to 
jump  on  to  the  hammock  at  Priscilla's  feet.  The  ham- 
mock rocked  gently  for  an  instant  under  the  weight  of 
his  onset;  and  once  again  there  was  silence,  though  a 
light  breeze  a  little  disturbed  the  leaves  of  the  mulberry- 
tree  ;  and  in  every  instant  tiny  speckles  of  sunlight  danced 
across  the  shade. 

"How  old  is  Romeo  ?"  asked  Badoureau  at  length,  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  hear  Priscilla  speak. 


CRIMSON  ROSES  13 

"Two  years.  Just  two  years.  And  unregenerate. 
Aren't  you,  Romeo?"  There  was  no  answer.  "People 
talk  of  animals  being  so  much  better  than  men ;  but  really 
there  doesn't  seem  much  to  choose  between  them,  d'you 
think?" 

"That's  the  Humanitarian  paradox,"  Badoureau 
agreed.    "It  pleases  them.     Nobody  else  minds." 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  David  feebly.     "O  soothsayer." 

"What  about  that  game  you  were  going  to  play?" 

"Too  hot." 

"He  knows,"  David  explained,  "that  he  funks  my 
service." 

Badoureau  slowly  pushed  himself  up  in  his  chair,  rose, 
and  seized  his  racquet.  The  gibe  fell  harmlessly  aside, 
for  he  was  obviously  a  very  active  young  man  in  perfect 
condition.  He  was  one  of  those  very  fair  men  who  escape 
light  eyelashes;  his  hair,  which  was  brushed  right  across 
his  forehead,  was  yellow,  but  it  was  not  canary-yellow; 
and  his  bright  determined  face  was  that  of  a  brave  young- 
ster who  would  be  a  brave  man.  He  was  just  under  six 
feet  high  in  height,  strikingly  beautiful. 

"Come  along,  old  thing,"  he  urged. 

David  also  rose,  juggling  with  his  pipe,  which  fell 
from  his  teeth  as  he  moved.  He  was  much  smaller  than 
his  friend,  and  much  darker.  His  mouth  was  rather 
long,  but  the  lips  were  thin  and  firmly  set.  His  hair  was 
more  curly  than  Badoureau's,  and  was  brushed  straight 
back  over  his  head.  He  also  was  well  built ;  but  he  was 
slimmer,  and  more  wiry,  a  fact  which  he  elaborately 
strove  to  hide  under  an  incomparable  air  of  laziness. 
With  his  legs  apart  he  picked  up  the  racquet. 

Priscilla  watched  them  as  they  went  off  to  the  tennis- 
lawn,  and  smiled  to  see  their  languor  gradually  replaced 
by  a  subtle  air  of  energy. 

"Well,  Romeo,"  she  said,  "it's  evident  that  you  and 
I  are  very  lazy  people." 


14  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Romeo  pretended  not  to  hear.  Only  the  uncontrollable 
movement  of  his  large  ears  betrayed  him.  He  was  curled 
up  on  a  cushion  at  Priscilla's  feet,  with  his  head  on  her 
muslin  dress,  and  a  smile  seemed  to  curve  his  lips.  Romeo 
was  a  tabby  cat,  deeply  coloured  in  rich  browns,  with 
large  luminous  eyes  and  the  thin  face  of  the  female.  His 
underparts  were  of  a  delicate  fawn,  and  his  feet  were 
white.  He  would  not  have  taken  a  prize  anywhere, 
though  he  might  have  interested  the  scientist  by  reason 
of  his  advanced  intelligence  and  strongly  marked  char- 
acter. Romeo,  in  fact,  was  an  instance  of  the  modern 
sexless  cat;  for  while  he  was  in  reality  a  female  he  still 
pursued  his  course  "in  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free," 
and  was  a  bold  hunter,  an  outdoor  cat,  a  home-at-night 
cat,  a  friendly  little  cat,  passionately  loving  Priscilla, 
obedient  as  a  dog  to  her  whistle,  and  her  constant  com- 
panion in  the  garden.  His  perception  of  friendliness  in 
men  and  women,  though,  of  course,  influenced  by  the 
quietness  of  each  person's  movements,  was  acute.  He 
was  very  powerful  in  the  Evandine  family,  and  a  good 
friend  to  have  at  court,  since  his  approval  was  admitted 
to  carry  much  weight. 

"Romeo,"  said  Priscilla,  "you're  getting  very  rude. 
I  spoke  to  you." 

Romeo  made  a  hoarse  noise,  as  of  apology.  Satisfied, 
although  rather  unwillingly,  with  this  sign  of  repentance, 
Priscilla  began  to  remember  the  first  time  she  had  seen 
Badoureau — when  she  had  gone  up  to  Oxford  for  one 
of  the  celebrations — and  she  recalled  that  he  had  been 
with  David  at  the  station  to  meet  them.  There  had  been 
a  good  deal  of  nonsense,  and,  upon  his  part,  a  little  rather 
undergraduatish  pressing  sentimentality ;  and  the  celebra- 
tion had  been  very  delightful  in  all  its  elaborate,  seemingly 
casual,  details.  Later,  when  the  young  men  lived  out  of 
college,  he  and  David  had  shared  rooms  in  King  Edward 
Street,  and  Badoureau  had  come  home  with  David  one 


CRIMSON  ROSES  15 

summer  for  a  few  days  before  they  went  abroad  together. 
Both  had  taken  History — Badoureau  with  much  eclat — 
and  both  had  come  down  from  the  University  about 
three  years  before  this  story  opens.  David,  following 
that  ignis  fatuus  which  leads  astray  so  many  Oxford  and 
Cambridge  men,  had,  by  his  father's  influence,  entered 
the  publishing  trade;  Badoureau,  with  rather  more 
money,  but  less  immediate  ambition,  had  subsided  in 
his  father's  office,  had  gone  so  far  as  to  "eat  his  dinners," 
and  would  go,  in  the  legal  profession,  no  farther.  His 
destiny  was  otherwise. 


It  is  not  for  one  moment  to  be  supposed  that  Priscilla 
did  not  know  all  that  was  in  Hilary  Badoureau's  mind 
concerning  herself :  his  earliest  rather  pressing  senti- 
mental activities  had  been  too  unmistakable  for  that. 
Moreover,  although  the  manner  of  his  approach  to  her 
had  improved  steadily  as  he  grew  older,  he  still  regarded 
her  obviously  in  a  rather  possessive  way  which  might 
well  have  led  a  girl  of  smaller  personality  to  turn  in- 
stinctively towards  him.  Badoureau  sometimes  ques- 
tioned David  as  to  Priscilla's  feelings — such  exchanges 
of  opinion  were  passing,  half -breathed,  something  merely 
to  be  mentioned  at  night  while  a  pipe  was  being  lighted, 
a  conference  to  be  smothered  by  a  slight  scorch  from  a 
waning  match — but  Priscilla's  feelings  remained,  to  the 
young  men,  as  mystifying  as  ever.  Until  one  or  other, 
with  all  the  profound  penetration  of  young  manhood, 
should  discover  a  motion  of  partiality,  Badoureau  would 
not  venture  to  hazard  everything  by  the  only  method 
which  would  have  resolved  his  hesitations.  His  oppor- 
tunities were  so  few,  his  pride  so  very  powerful — and 
David's  attitude  was  so  mixed  between  sympathetic 
ridicule,  inability  to  see  any  issue  excepting  his  friend's 
success,  and  deep  scepticism  about  the  whole  business — 


16  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

that  Badoureau's  doubts  were  always  blowing  like  sudden 
winds  upon  his  pride  and  his  desire,  making  them  both 
flame  into  an  intolerable  heat  from  which  he  could  never 
escape.  He  used  to  sit  in  his  room  at  home  and  write 
little  verses  to  Priscilla,  staring  at  an  aesthetic  wall-paper 
for  inspiration,  and  at  his  prints  of  Botticelli's  works, 
and  at  his  books.  Then  he  would  leave  off  writing  the 
verses  and  would  rid  himself  of  the  poetic  impulse  by 
some  more  active  physical  exercise.  Then  he  would  meet 
other  nice  girls,  and  would  mentally  compare  them  with 
Priscilla.  He  lived  a  very  happy,  healthy  life,  working 
as  it  suited  him,  playing  a  great  deal,  worrying  very  little 
indeed,  and  enjoying  a  considerable  variety  in  his  days, 
which  never,  even  when  love  was  uppermost  in  his 
thoughts,  became  in  the  least  tedious. 

David  Evandine,  on  the  other  hand,  being  bent  upon 
quite  other  schemes,  went  every  day  to  his  publishing 
office — sometimes  read  a  manuscript,  generally  lounged 
about,  smoking,  and  in  his  lazy  way  kept  most  alertly 
aware  of  all  that  was  passing,  both  in  the  business  of 
which  he  was  a  part  and  in  the  businesses  of  all  rival 
firms  whatsoever.  In  three  years,  owing  to  his  casual 
partnership,  his  large  circle  of  acquaintances — which  he 
had  made  through  his  father,  through  his  fellow  Univer- 
sity men,  and  through  his  own  researches  in  aesthetic 
society, — and  his  natural  talent,  David  had  reached  a 
point  of  omniscience  which  was  the  marvel  of  his  asso- 
ciates. He  would  one  day  write  a  very  brilliant,  casual 
novel,  and  put  into  it  the  results  of  his  unhesitating 
observation.  David's  sharp  eye  riddled  the  pretensions 
of  all  writers.  He  knew  what  each  man  was  good  for, 
and  what  or  whom  each  woman  was  bad  for.  All  that 
extraordinary  experience  of  the  undergraduate  in  exploit- 
ing the  nonsense  and  the  vanities  of  this  world  for  the 
delight  of  his  friends  had  served  as  an  excellent  basis 
for  his  later  work.     It  had  given  him  what  is  called  a 


CRIMSON  ROSES  17 

catholic  taste — which,  being  defined,  signifies  a  cool 
narrowness  of  sympathy,  supplemented  by  ingenious 
prejudices  and  a  very  happy  knack  of  turning  to  ridicule 
whatever  he  did  not  happen  to  like.  He  was  a  very  able, 
likeable,  popular  young  man,  quite  modest,  but  very 
shrewd,  and  very  typical  of  his  kind  and  of  his  class. 
He  was  much  more  susceptible  to  experience  than  was 
Badoureau,  and  so  he  assimilated  more.  It  gave  him  the 
air  of  being  a  man  of  the  world,  which  is  an  air  greatly 
cultivated  by  the  undergraduate ;  but  he  was  almost  wholly 
free  of  the  man-of-the-world's  sentimentality.  That  is 
to  say,  he  was  a  gentleman. 

So  it  was  that  the  two  friends,  sharing  so  much,  found 
in  each  other  the  necessary  strangeness  and  variety  that 
keeps  friendship  alive.  They  argued  together,  lunched 
together,  walked  together,  played  together.  Together 
they  sampled  the  vintages  of  life,  of  which  it  seems  to 
be  the  business  of  every  educated  young  man  to  be  a 
connoisseur.  Together  they  spent  hours  and  evenings 
of  unstinted  leisure,  and  talked  as  largely,  as  freely,  and 
as  finally  as  ever  they  had  done  in  King  Edward  Street 
or  elsewhere.  In  spite,  however,  of  so  much  companion- 
ship, the  two  young  men  could  still  beat  each  other  at 
tennis  upon  a  very  hot  summer  day  at  the  bidding  of 
some  vital  energy  which  it  had  never  entered  their  heads 
to  define.  And  Priscilla  listened  to  them  as  they  ran 
about  and  praised  and  taunted  each  other  and  called  their 
score,  until  at  last  the  magic  word  "Game!"  sounded  in 
David's  exulting  voice,  followed  by  his  little  quick  laugh 
of  triumph.  At  that  moment  she  saw,  advancing  across 
the  lawn,  carrying  a  little  table,  Biddy,  the  prepossessing 
parlourmaid  of  the  Evandines'  household — a  girl  of  per- 
fect manners  and,  as  far  as  could  be  ascertained,  no 
personality  -vhatever — competent,  silent,  inexhaustible, 
but  apparently  senseless. 

Biddy  was  not  one  of  those  Biddies  who  say,  "Ef  ye 


18  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

plaze,  miss."  On  the  contrary,  she  spoke  almost  more 
correctly  than  did  Priscilla  herself.  She  carried  the 
tabic  with  remarkable  ease  and  simply  astonishing  grace, 
and  was  able  to  smile  friendly  at  Priscilla  as  she  put  it 
down.  Then  she  went  away  again,  to  return  with  a  huge 
cakestand ;  then  again,  to  return  with  the  tray.  Only 
when  this  was  done  did  she  address  Priscilla. 

"The  mistress  says  that  she'll  be  coming  with  the 
American  gentleman  in  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Priscilla; 
and  will  you  please  not  wait  for  her." 

"Thank  you,  Biddy.    Come  along,  David.    Hilary !" 

Priscilla  eluded  Romeo,  and  without  help  disentangled 
herself  from  the  hammock.  The  tennis-players  came 
droopingly  back  into  the  welcome  shadow,  pretending 
to  be  hotter  and  more  tired  than  they  were.  And  Priscilla 
demurely  poured  out  the  tea  for  them,  to  Badoureau's 
great  admiration. 

"Mother  will  be  here  in  a  minute  with  Mr.  Vana- 
mure,"  she  presently  announced.  "An  American  who's 
come  to  see  father,"  she  added  for  Badoureau's  infor- 
mation. 

"Oh,  that  chap!"  David  frowned  a  little.  "Marvel- 
lous how  he  gets  about." 

"He  admires  father,  it  seems."  Priscilla  spoke  quite 
seriously.  She,  too,  admired  Mr.  Evandine,  and  even 
sometimes  read  some  chapters  of  his  books.  She  always 
handled  the  books  with  pride,  but  they  were  on  sub- 
jects which  did  not  greatly  interest  her,  so  she  generally 
postponed  reading  them  until  a  more  convenient 
season. 

"I  saw  Agg  lunching  him  the  other  day.  Vanamure's 
very  short,  and  Agg's  as  long  as  a  clothes-prop.  They 
looked  awfully  queer." 

"I  like  Mr.  Agg :  he's  so  quaint,"  Priscilla  said.  "He 
goggles  at  you." 

"Oh — Agg.     Yes,  I  know  him."     Badoureau  recalled 


CRIMSON  ROSES  19 

a  very  lengthy  man  in  a  strange  cloth  hat  and  baggy 
trousers.  "He's  a  writer  or  something.  Who  is  Vana- 
mure?" 

"American  critic.  Dull  little  fellow.  I  should  think 
he  admired  everybody.  'Why,  this  is  a  more  excellent 
song  than  the  other.'  Not  a  bit  like  an  American  either, 
though  he's  got  a  very  strong  accent.  He  smokes  jolly 
good  cigars." 

"D'you  mean  he's  a  writer?"  Badoureau  asked. 

"Well,  now  you  come  to  mention  it — I  don't  believe 
he  is.  I  fancy  he's  a  man  of  means  who's  simply  got 
books  on  the  brain." 

"That's  just  like  father!"  interrupted  Priscilla.  "Only, 
of  course,  he  is  a  writer." 

David  handed  her  his  cup.  It  was  a  disconcerting 
movement,  which  Priscilla  did  not  understand.  But  she 
obediently  refilled  the  cup,  which  was  as  fine  and  as  clear 
as  her  own  complexion. 

"By  the  way :  hasn't  your  father  just  published  a 
book?"  Badoureau  asked. 

"A  tremendous  great  book."  Priscilla's  voice  expressed 
hugeness. 

"Your  people  do  it?"  said  Badoureau  to  David.  David 
shook  his  head. 

"No:  Seeds  did  it.  They  do  all  his  books,  you 
know." 

"It's  an  enormous  life  of  Leigh  Hunt.  He  says  it  fills 
a  great  void,"  explained  Priscilla.  "You  and  I  mightn't 
know  that,  Hilary.  Don't  you  think  it  sounds  rather 
thrilling?" 

"Vastly  thrilling,"  said  David  dryly.  "And  what's 
more,  there  is  now  indoors  a  very  vigorous  slating  of  it, 
calculated  to  cheer  the  old  man  up." 

"A  slating !"  Priscilla's  colour  rose.  "How  disgusting ! 
By  somebody  jealous,  I  expect.  Why,  father  knows  such 
an  awful  lot  about  Leigh  Hunt." 


20  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"But  your  father  .  .  ."  Badoureau  was  beginning, 
when  they  saw  Mrs.  Evandine  coming  across  the  lawn 
with  a  small  dark-bearded  man,  and  the  arrival  of  the 
new-comers  put  a  stop  to  any  further  talk  on  this  un- 
pleasant subject. 

iii 

Mrs.  Evandine  had  passed  from  youth  to  middle  age 
so  gently  that  her  friends  had  never  noticed  the  change. 
It  was  a  shock  to  them  to  see  that  Priscilla  was  growing 
up,  for,  of  course,  if  Priscilla  grew  up,  her  mother's  age 
must  increase  proportionately.  That  was  a  conclusion 
which  even  they  could  not  shirk.  In  consternation  they 
would  glance  at  Mrs.  Evandine;  and  in  that  case  they 
would  be  reassured.  She  had  grown  older  so  gradually 
that  while  she  was  clearly  Priscilla's  mother,  and  not 
her  sister  (a  relation  which  could  only  have  been  estab- 
lished by  some  underhand  manipulations),  she  was  still 
beautiful  and  still  without  rival.  Mrs.  Evandine's  life 
had  been  so  entirely  happy  that  her  hair  retained  its 
colour  and  her  eyes  their  fresh  clearness :  yet  her  nature 
had  such  youth  and  elasticity  that  she  had  grown  more 
mature  and  more  wise  with  the  passage  of  time,  without 
sacrificing  a  particle  of  her  old  charm.  She  could  laugh 
as  naturally  as  she  had  ever  done;  and  she  had  found 
in  her  interest  and  sympathy  with  others  a  spiritual 
reality  denied  to  those  women  who  vainly  seek  to  evoke 
from  their  daily  self-consciousness  a  personality  where- 
with to  affright  the  world.  And  it  is  worth  noting  that 
even  among  such  women,  many  of  whom  she  frequently 
met,  Mrs.  Evandine  was  liked  and  respected.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  she  suffered  fools  gladly ;  perhaps  the  fools 
were  less  foolish  in  her  company.  For  it  is  too  seldom 
realized  that  sympathy,  as  well  as  love,  does  not  simply 
imagine  or  bestow  beauty :  it  also  calls  it  forth.  As  the 
girl  in  love  seems  to  grow  more  beautiful,  so  she  really 


CRIMSON  ROSES  21 

grows ;  and  as  one  kindly  treated  seems  to  soften,  so  she 
does  actually  lose  her  difficult  angularities.  There  is  no 
illusion.  Mrs.  Evandine  saw  good;  but  there  was  good 
for  her  to  see.  Nevertheless,  she  was  very  patient  and 
often  rather  long-sighted. 

Mrs.  Evandine  saw  good  in  Mr.  Vanamure.  Mr.  Vana- 
mure  thought  her  a  most  attractive  woman.  He  wished 
that  he  could  have  been  snapshotted  as  he  walked  across 
the  lawn  in  her  company.  It  would  have  made  a  very 
charming  little  picture  in  a  semi-literary  periodical — Mr. 
Vanamure  walking  with  the  wife  of  the  eminent  critic 
in  the  grounds  of  Mr.  Evandine's  old-world  house  at 
Whetstone.  Mr.  Vanamure  was  by  no  means  a  typical 
American;  but  he  had  that  pictorial  sense  which  many 
Englishmen  suppose  to  be  typically  American.  He  saw 
himself  in  charming  little  pictures,  against  lovely  old 
porches,  and  with  distinguished  men  and  attractive 
women,  and  in  the  act  of  mounting  a  Rolls-Royce  motor, 
and  on  the  side  of  Snowdon,  and  gazing  at  the  lions  in 
Trafalgar  Square.  It  was  all  his  modesty.  There  existed 
no  snapshot  of  Mr.  Vanamure  solus,  Mr.  Vanamure  in 
his  own  home.  Always  Mr.  Vanamure  ventured  to  emu- 
late the  chameleon,  and  take  the  colour  of  his  surround- 
ings. Not  Mr.  Vanamure  the  man  was  here  represented, 
but  Mr.  Vanamure  the  privileged  atom.  Mr.  Vanamure's 
idea  of  Paradise  must  have  been  a  kaleidoscopic  view  of 
his  encounters  with  the  many  celebrated  people  and  places 
who  and  which  had  adorned  his  snapshots.  His  manner 
was  placid  and  benign ;  his  heavy,  dark,  silken  beard  and 
his  very  luminous  eyes  were  alike  ingratiating.  He  looked 
upon  the  trio  of  young  people  with  an  air  of  suave  won- 
der. They  almost  expected  that  he  would  extol  them. 
To  Priscilla,  in  one  quick  glance,  it  seemed  as  though 
he  might  be  Romeo's  brother. 

"How  d'you  do.  Charmed,"  said  Mr.  Vanamure 
bravely.     "Delightfully  hot."     He  stopped  before  them 


22  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

with  a  bow  of  extreme  grace,  and  in  his  manner  a  soft 
inquiring-  intelligence  that  was  not  quite  a  smile. 

"You  boys  seem  to  be  quite  exhausted,"  Mrs.  Evandine 
went  on.  "But  then  I  suppose  you've  been  playing." 
They  admitted  the  fact,  to  Mr.  Vanamure's  great  interest. 

"Now,  that's  just  wonderful !"  he  declared.  "To  think 
that  while  I  was  cloistered  in  Professor  Evandine's  study, 
among  all  those  grand  old  books,  there  should  have  been 
.  .  .  really,  you  see,  the  silence  of  it  all.  .  .  .  Quite 
marvellous." 

"But  when  you  were  very  young,  Mr.  Vanamure — " 
Priscilla  began. 

"Never,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Evandine.  Studious  from 
the  very  first,  I  must  always  be  with  my  book  in  the 
shadow."  Mr.  Vanamure  sighed,  and  his  mild,  sweet, 
drawling  voice  seemed  a  part  of  the  drowsy  afternoon. 
"Beauty  transfigured  in  fine  literature  was  always  my 
delight.  ..." 

"Not  even  sermons  in  stones?"  asked  David,  smiling. 
"Did  you  never  conjure  the  running  brook?" 

"Never,  Mr.  Evandine.  I'm  sorry  for  it  now.  I'm 
conscious  as  I  sit  here  of  the  vast  enveloping  of  nature, 
the  enchanting  day,  and  the  lovely  oneness  of  the  .  .  . 
the  ...  in  fact,  of  every  sound  that  the  breeze  carries. 
But  it  is  always  the  poet's  nature  I  see,  Mr.  Evandine, 
the  music  of  the  measured  rhythm  of  life,  as  one  may 
say.  Deepening,  as  it  were.  .  .  ."  His  voice  disap- 
peared, melting  into  the  shadow  and  the  little  freckles 
of  sunlight  that  glanced  through  the  hardly  moving 
spaces  of  the  tree  above.  Badoureau  turned  to  Priscilla 
with  an  air  of  partial  bewilderment  that  did  not  wholly 
conceal  contempt. 

"On  Sunday,"  he  said  abruptly.  "If  I  motor  over 
.  .  .  I've  got  a  jolly  new  car  .  .  ." 

"What  colour?"  asked  Priscilla,  eager  at  once  to  hear 
such  a  detail. 


CRIMSON  ROSES  23 

"It's  the  fashionable  colour.  ...  I  forget  what  it's 
called.  .  .  .  Sort  of  buff-grey.  David's  coming  with  me. 
I  thought  if  you  ..." 

"The  lovely  softness,  you  see,  of  these  velvety  downs 
of  yours.  .  .  ." 

Priscilla  could  not  help  listening  to  that  floating  voice, 
those  lingering  mellifluous  accents,  and  looking  from 
Mr.  Vanamure's  gentle  ingratiating  eyes  to  the  quiet 
sympathy  of  her  mother's  expression,  and  the  curious 
whimsical  contraction  of  David's  brow.  To  return  to 
Badoureau's  rather  imperative,  rather  intense  contem- 
plation of  herself  was  to  experience  a  sudden  shock.  It 
so  markedly  divided  the  scene  into  two  parts — into  the 
peaceable  and  the  vigorous.  Not  for  many  months  had 
Hilary  Badoureau  so  clearly  adopted  the  attitude  of 
siege.  For  a  fleeting  instant  Priscilla  involunaritly 
hesitated. 

"No,  I  can't,  Hilary.  Sorry.  Ethel  Clodd  is  coming. 
Do  you  know  her?" 

He  was  wounded  by  her  refusal,  even  though  it  was 
gently  given. 

"She  could  come,"  he  urged.  "She  could  come  as  well. 
Why  not?" 

"I  rather  seem  to  fancy  she's  nervous  at  high  speed." 

"There'd  be  no  danger."  He  was  frowning  impa- 
tiently, with,  perhaps,  the  privilege  of  an  old  friend. 

"I'm  sure  of  that.  But  would  she  know?  You  see, 
Hilary,  I  shouldn't  like  to  promise  for  her.  She's  coming 
to  luncheon,  and  I  rather  hoped  you'd  be  here  to  play 
tennis." 

"With  Ethel  Clodd?"  Hilary  was  momentarily  cha- 
grined into  exclamation. 

"Only  the  purest  expression  of  the  most  memorable 
emotions  in  the  entire  gamut,"  Mr.  Vanamure  was  with 
some  pertinacity  pleading  in  reply  to  a  word  of  David's. 
"The  loveliest  things  in  all  our  lovely  literature.    As  one 


24  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

might  more  finally  and  distillingly  put  it  .  .  .  the  very 
create  de  la  crane  of  the  best.   .   .  ." 

"Couldn't  you?" 

"Does  she  play  better  than  Martin  Clodd?  He's  a 
positive  agony  to  play  against." 

"Poor  Martin.     Yet  he's  very  decent." 

"But  at  what  a  cost !"  chimed  in  David,  who  had 
forsaken  Mr.  Vanamure's  lethargic  monologue  and  left 
him  to  engage  Mrs.  Evandine's  inexhaustible  attentive- 
ness.  "Decency  that's  the  last  rag.  Decency  that's  grown 
on  him  as  a  vice  until  the  poor  old  thing's  a  shambling 
wreck  of  manhood." 

"Oh,  come!"  cried  Priscilla. 

"I  assure  you  he's  .  .  ." 

"But  if  I  bring  the  car?"  said  Badoureau.  "I  want 
you  to  try  her."  He  looked  very  insistently  at  Priscilla 
as  he  spoke. 

"You  can  come  in  the  car,  Hilary,  certainly,"  she  said. 
"I  only  meant  that  I  couldn't  promise  that  she'd  go." 
Then,  mischievously,  she  added:  "Not  even  to  satisfy 
you." 

The  slow  red  came  into  Badoureau's  cheeks.  His  lips 
tightened.     Pie  was  defiantly  resolved. 

"I'll  persuade  her,"  he  said  grimly. 

Priscilla  smiled,  and  he  drew  a  sharp  breath  at  the  sight 
of  her  pretty  smiling  mouth. 


IV 

When  tea  was  finished  Mrs.  Evandine  and  Priscilla 
walked  together  to  the  house,  with  Romeo  following  in 
attendance,  his  tail  rolling  in  the  air.  They  crossed  the 
sunny  lawn  before  the  house,  and  went  into  the  square, 
carpeted  hall.    At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  they  paused. 

"Will  Hilary  be  staying  to  dinner?"  Mrs.  Evandine 
asked,  as  she  prepared  to  ascend.    "I  forgot  to  ask  him." 


CRIMSON  ROSES  25 

"No,  mother.  He's  going  soon.  Will  Mr.  Vana- 
mure?" 

"Your  father  asked  him  to  stay." 

"He's  rather  too  ecstatic,  isn't  he?  I  mean,  for  com- 
fort."    Their  eyes  met,  with  equal  candour. 

"I  think  he's  quite  sincere." 

Priscilla  laughed  slightly,  and  dropped  her  glance. 

"I'm  afraid  Hilar)'  affected  me,"  she  said.  "He  seems 
incapable  of  hiding  his  boredom." 

"That's  only  to  say  that  he  still  has  something  to 
learn,  even  in  charity."  Mrs.  Evandine  had  almost  said 
"courtesy." 

"Still,  it's  rather  human  .  .  .  don't  you  think?" 

Mrs.  Evandine  was  going  up  the  stairs  now,  and  so 
she  did  not  answer.  It  may  have  been  that  she  did  not 
hear.  Priscilla  turned  away,  to  go  into  the  drawing-room 
that  opened  upon  the  garden,  from  which  she  could  see 
the  group  they  had  left  under  the  mulberry-tree.  Biddy 
was  crossing  the  lawn  with  the  cake-stand — a  trim, 
demure  figure.  Mr.  Vanamure  was  following  Biddy 
with  his  eyes,  and  Priscilla  thought  he  must  be  locating 
her  in  his  kaleidoscopic  Paradise.  Without  any  inten- 
tion of  watching,  Priscilla  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 
open  window,  noticing  Hilary  Badoureau's  rather  dis- 
dainful attitude  as  he  listened  to  Mr.  Vanamure's  con- 
versation. There  was  a  slightly  puzzled  expression  on 
Priscilla's  face.  Did  her  mother  not  like  Hilary?  Did 
she  herself  understand  her  mother's  feeling  about  Hilary's 
manner?  And  then,  still  more  puzzling,  it  would  seem, 
did  her  mother  really  understand  things  that  Priscilla 
did  not  dream  of  ?  Was  her  mother  a  mystery  ?  Priscilla 
almost  sighed  at  the  thought.  It  seemed  so  to  fit  in  with 
the  soft  lulling  heat  of  that  summer  day.  .  .  .  Such 
pleasant  wonderings,  to  which  there  was  no  apparent  end, 
in  which,  whatever  happened,  there  was  no  urgency,  were 
all  a  part  of  the  gracious  life  in  this  old  charming  house 


26  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

— so  near  to  life,  so  near  to  nature,  yet  so  far  from  both. 
Surely  Priscilla  was  dreaming.  .  .  . 

She  turned  idly  away  to  the  piano,  upon  which  stood 
a  bowl  of  crimson  roses,  and  at  the  sight  of  them  her 
face  changed.  For  an  instant  her  lids  drooped,  and  her 
lips  were  compressed,  as  though  the  roses  held  some 
ancient  unforgettable  memory.  When  she  smiled  again 
Priscilla's  smile  was  graver,  more  womanly.  In  the 
garden,  with  her  lovely,  delicate  fairness,  and  in  her  very 
soft  muslin  gown,  she  had  seemed  to  be  both  young  and 
immature.  Her  deep  blue  eyes,  so  naturally  wide  open 
beneath  their  white  lids,  had  held  no  pain  or  reflective- 
ness, but  only  the  pure  honesty  of  her  nature.  Withdrawn 
now  completely  from  the  others,  she  became  subtly  differ- 
ent— not  more  secret,  in  no  way  less  entirely  candid,  but 
certainly  more  beautiful.  She  became  less  the  fairy  prin- 
cess, less  the  unawakened  beauty  of  the  sleeping  wood, 
and  more  clearly  an  English  girl,  who  was  daughter  and 
sister,  and  would  eventually  be  wife  and  mother.  If 
before,  in  the  garden,  she  had  been  pretty,  happy,  grace- 
ful, and  in  every  respect  attractive  to  the  eye,  Priscilla 
now  became  attractive  to  the  imagination,  which  alone 
could  perceive  behind  her  normal  demeanour  the  charac- 
ter which  actually  gave  significance  to  her  every  feature. 
When  her  expression  changed,  her  blue  eyes  grew  darker. 
Pain,  then,  was  not  unknown  to  her.  It  would  have  been 
impossible  to  avoid  wondering  whether  the  two  omnis- 
cient young  men  in  the  garden,  listening  with  condescen- 
sion to  the  naive  raptures  of  a  middle-aged  idealist,  had 
altogether  reached  an  understanding  of  Priscilla's  temper- 
ament— whether,  in  concentrating  upon  a  single  issue, 
and  in  regarding  her  as  related  to  life  solely  by  this  one 
issue,  they  had  not  been  guilty  of  an  over-simplification. 
If  the  young  are  always  too  clever  to  know  anything, 
might  it  not  be  said  that  in  estimating  the  chances  of 
Priscilla's  choice  of  alternatives  they  had  forgotten  all 


CRIMSON  ROSES  27 

about  the  creative  as  opposed  to  the  passive  or  receptive 
side  of  Priscilla's  character?  That  will  be  seen  here- 
after, when  those  consequences  which  are  neither  rewards 
nor  punishments  in  due  course  shall  have  matured. 


Dinner  was  served  while  the  daylight  lingered,  and  the 
long  windows  of  the  dining-room  still  admitted  during 
the  meal  the  evening  songs  of  birds  and  the  translucent 
greys  of  the  declining  day.  At  the  dinner-table  were 
four  of  those  whom  we  have  already  met — Priscilla,  her 
mother,  David,  Mr.  Vanamure — and,  in  addition,  Mr. 
Evandine,  a  moustached  man  of  middle  age,  with  rather 
bristling  eyebrows  and  deep-set  eyes.  Spectacles,  the 
glasses  of  which  were  almost  circular  in  shape,  and 
without  rims,  gave  Mr.  Evandine  a  benign,  learned  look 
(for  he  was  an  exceedingly  amiable  man)  ;  while  his 
rather  thin,  seedy  voice  emphasized  a  slight  fastidious 
mannerism  of  speech  which  was  not  without  its  impres- 
sive effect.  He  was  dressed  in  the  manner  described  by 
some  writers  as  "faultlessly,"  which  means  that  the  ex- 
cellent cut  of  his  dinner-jacket  was  ably  supported  by  a 
person  well  covered  with  flesh.  He  was  not  very  tall,  but 
he  was  very  well  made,  and  had  always  taken  such  good 
care  of  his  body,  as  well  as  of  his  tailors,  that  he  looked 
as  though  he  were  in  the  habit  of  wearing  a  dinner-jacket. 
That  is  a  state  to  which  few  spare  men  and  no  ill-made 
men  can  ever  attain.  His  eyes  were  blue,  and  had  per- 
haps once  been  as  blue  as  Priscilla's ;  but  they  were  now 
a  little  dulled,  and  the  whites  were  faded.  In  spite  of 
that,  however,  his  sight  could  at  times  be  very  swift,  and 
slight  acquaintances  were  never  sure  whether  his  amia- 
bility was  normal  or  a  covering  for  the  domestic  temper 
of  a  scold.  That  was  because  his  fastidious  mannerism 
sometimes  became   fastidious  irascibility.     At  the  head 


28  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

of  the  table  he  was  always  courteous;  but  at  all  times 
his  conversation  was  rather  too  inclined  to  be  bookish, 
and  that  made  him  something  less  than  the  perfect 
host. 

Priscilla  had  changed  into  a  dress  of  very  pale  blue, 
and  the  effect  of  the  low-necked  bodice  was  to  show  how 
exquisitely  her  slender  neck  rose,  and  how  delicately 
poised  was  her  small  head.  Also,  the  effect  was  to  make 
her  look  like  a  little  girl,  for  her  complexion  was  so  un- 
spoiled, and  her  expression  so  unaffected,  that  one  could 
only  think  of  her  as  in  her  teens.  In  fact,  she  was  exactly 
twenty-two  years  and  a  few  days  old. 

Mr.  Vanamure,  sitting  beside  her,  and  upon  Mrs. 
Evandine's  right  hand,  was  in  a  state  of  incommunicable 
pleasure.  His  sense  of  Mr.  Evandine's  profound  wisdom, 
benevolence,  and  hospitality  was  acute.  His  sense  of 
David's  amazingly  English  air  of  good  breeding  was  one 
of  silent  admiration.  His  sense  of  the  beauty  of  Mrs. 
Evandine  and  Priscilla,  linked  also  with  the  clear,  opales- 
cent lustre  of  the  evening,  was  almost  rapturous.  His 
sensitiveness  to  beauty  was,  as  Mrs.  Evandine  had  seen, 
quite  genuine;  but  the  guiding  taste  was  uncertain,  too 
eager,  and  apt  to  lead  him  from  enthusiasm  to  enthusiasm 
from  sheer  nervousness  and  dread  of  the  awkwardness  of 
debate.  Thus  it  was  that  he  too  assiduously  hung  upon 
Mr.  Evandine's  dropped  wisdoms,  and  thus  it  was  that 
he  came  rather  to  distress  David.  David,  drawling 
rather  lazily,  at  last  put  a  question. 

"But,  Mr.  Vanamure,"  he  said,  "surely  you'd  admit 
that  most  poets  write  a  great  deal  of  bosh — at  times 
when  they're  below  their  best?  Wordsworth,  of  course, 
is  the  general  example." 

"Indeed,  yes,  Mr.  Evandine,"  admitted  Mr.  Vanamure, 
making  many  slow  nods,  with  his  eyes  opened  to  their 
widest  to  show  his  great  innocence  and  willingness  to 
agree.    "There  is  no  doubt  that  some  of  our  very  greatest 


CRIMSON  ROSES  29 

writers  have  their  lapses.  You  agree?"  he  asked  of  Mr. 
Evandine,  smiling  gently,  as  if  gratified,  at  the  host's 
bland  consent.  "But  are  not  such  men,  even  .  .  .  even, 
one  might  say,  at  their  least  happy  .  .  .  happy,  are  not 
they  far  beyond  the  common  mind  of  man?  Far  beyond 
the  reach  ...  I  beg  your  pardon."  His  nervous  intent- 
ness  upon  his  own  desire  to  please  grew  more  pronounced. 

"I  understood  you  to  deprecate  all  adverse  criticism 
of  eminent  men  as  impertinence,"  said  David.  "All  I 
suggested  was  that  if  some  of  what  they  have  written  is 
not  good,  somebody  ought  to  say  so.  It  ought  to  be  the 
aim  of  criticism  to  distinguish  finally  between  good  and 
less  good,  less  good  and  mediocre,  and  mediocre  and  bad. 
.  .  .  Only  so,  it  seems  to  me,  can  criticism  have  any 
reason  to  be  considered  an  art  or  a  science." 

"Quite  so.  .  .  .  Between  good  and  less  good — I 
agree,"  pleaded  Mr.  Vanamure.  "The  rest — I  venture 
to  think  .  .  .  And  here" — he  glanced  deprecatingly  side- 
ways at  Mr.  Evandine — "the  Professor  I  trust  will  agree 
with  me  .  .  .  the  rest  I  venture  to  think — no!  It  is 
enough  to  worship  the  best.  Let  us  not  pursue  the  lesser 
goods  until  we  criticise" — this  word  he  pronounced  with 
loathing — "criticize  them  out  of  their  obscurity  into  a 
prominence  that  is  undue  and  undesirable,  and  arises 
simply  from  the  desire  of  the  critic  to  destroy,  to  depre- 
ciate. .  .  ."  Trembling,  he  discontinued  his  remarks, 
and  took  hock.  "Excuse  me,"  he  breathlessly  added. 
"Those  of  us  who  derive  our  daily  life  of  the  spirit  from 
all  that  is  lovely  in  literature  can't  bear  to  have  our  Muse 
treated  as  if  it  were  a  quadruped." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  all  for  severe  scrutiny,"  said  David. 
"Even  of  gift-horses." 

"You're  young,  sir  .  .  .  you're  young.  It's  natural, 
Mr.  Evandine.  But  as  one  grows  older  one  sees  the  vast 
illimitable  spaces  covered  by  the  glorious  minds  of  our 
greatest  poets.  .  .  .  One  perceives  the  futility  of  finger- 


30  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

ing  their  lesser  works.  .  .  .  One  even  comes  to  feel  that 
perhaps  there's  less  difference  than  we  had  thought  be- 
tween great  and  small  and  -nod  and  less  good.  One 
becomes  almost  awed  before  the  poet's  mind,  the  creative 
gift.  Afraid  to  say  a  word.  One  realizes,  if  I  might 
say  so,  that  it  may  be  one's  own  judgment,  one's  own 
failure  to  understand,  that  was  at  fault.  .  .  .  What  is 
wanted  to  stimulate  the  love  of  the  beautiful  is  Praise,  a 
Thanksgiving,  not  Depreciation,  not  Criticism.  Let  us 
have  Appreciation." 

David  was  smiling,  not  at  all  ruffled,  because  he  was 
not  talking  very  seriously. 

"Now  the  case  comes  up  rather  interestingly,"  he  said. 
"You  may  have  seen  my  father's  book  on  Leigh  Hunt — 
excuse  me,  father.  .  .  .  My  father,  I  know,  has  no  objec- 
tion to  my  saying  this.  ...  In  that  book  my  father 
cannot  bear  to  say  that  Leigh  Hunt  was  a  silly,  amateurish 
writer  who  did  a  great  many  things  very  badly.  He  can- 
not bear  to  say  that;  but  he  knows  he  can  make  Hunt  a 
most  interesting  personality  whether  he  says  it  or  not. 
Don't  you  think  that  in  omitting  to  say  true  words  of 
Hunt's  writing,  in  concentrating  only  on  Hunt's  charm- 
ing essays,  and  happy  thoughts  as  a  commentator,  my 
father  is  failing  in  his  duty  as  a  critic?" 

Mr.  Evandine  permitted  such  comments  in  his  hearing 
from  David :  he  was  a  very  wise  man. 

"My  dear  Mr.  David  Evandine  .  .  ."  began  Mr. 
Vanamure. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Vanamure.  Before  you  demolish  my 
son,  let  me  do  it  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Evandine  with  an 
air  of  smiling  gravity  that  made  him  very  attractive. 
"What  he  says  has  no  value  at  all,  because  he  has  taken 
it  all  from  that  review  which  you  so  frankly  refused  to 
read  this  afternoon.  .  .  ." 

"The  abominable  slating?"  asked  Priscilla  with  eager 
interest. 


CRIMSON  ROSES  31 

"Exactly.  A  very  able,  cool,  and  most  interesting 
article  in  The  Norm.  I  disagree  with  it  entirely.  I  think 
it  altogether  too  exacting  in  its  standards — in  fact, 
impossible  when  one  considers  the  fact  that  there  is 
room  in  all  human  affairs  for  judgments  almost  too 
numerous.  .  .  ." 

"Hear,  hear,"  said  David  mildly. 

"But,"  proceeded  Mr.  Evandine,  "the  review,  the 
opinions  from  which  David  has  impudently  adopted,  does 
put  the  book,  and  Leigh  Hunt,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  in 
a  very  candid  new  light  which  is  most  interesting.  One 
doesn't  do  that  sort  of  thing  oneself ;  nor  does  one  wholly 
approve  it;  but  one  tolerates  it  for  its  insight." 

"You  should  welcome  it  .  .  .  help  it,"  said  David. 
"If  criticism  is  ever  to  be  of  any  use  at  all  as  a  purge." 

"Pardon  ...  it  can  only,"  said  Mr.  Vanamure,  "can 
only  give  hurt  ...  a  superfluous  act.  .  .  .  We  can  do 
our  best  only  to  bring  beauty,  gentleness.  .  .  ." 

"When  we  feel  passionately  for  beauty  or  truth  we 
surely  must  sometimes  hurt,"  suggested  Mrs.  Evandine, 
speaking  for  the  first  time.  "It  doesn't  do  to  be  too 
conventional,  do  you  think?" 

Mr.  Vanamure  was  destroyed.  He  became  incoherent 
in  an  attempt  to  agree  with  everything. 

"And  this  abominable  slating,"  demanded  Priscilla. 
"Does  one  know  who  wrote  it?" 

"Little  lamb,"  remarked  David. 

"And  has  mother  read  it?"  asked  Priscilla,  almost  with 
a  sort  of  indignation. 

"Your  mother  has  read  it,"  Mr.  Evandine  said.  "And 
I'm  sorry  to  say  she  agrees  with  it." 

"Mother!     And  who  wrote  it?" 

"Curiously  enough  ...  an  old  friend  of  yours, 
Priscilla.  It's  by  that  young  fellow  who  used  to  come. 
.  .  .  Dear  me:  what  is  his  name? 

"It's  written  by  Moore  .  .  ."  said  David. 


32  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"Stephen !"  Priscilla  did  not  know  that  she  had 
spoken. 

Her  mother,  closely  observing,  saw  Priscilla's  hand 
move  suddenly  upon  the  table,  saw  Priscilla's  head  bent 
as  though  she  had  become  suddenly  short-sighted. 

"Of  course  .  .  .  Stephen  Moore.  By  the  way,  why 
does  he  never  come  to  see  us  in  these  times?"  asked 
Air.  Evandine.     "It  must  be  years  since  we  saw  him." 

"I've  met  him  once  or  twice,"  David  said. 

"You've  never  said — "  cried  Priscilla  swiftly. 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  met  him  here.  I'm  not  sure 
I  knew  that  you  knew  him.  Must  have  been  when  I 
was  at  Oxford." 

"In  point  of  fact,"  Mr.  Evandine  was  explaining  to 
his  guest,  "the  writer  of  that  is  a  sort  of  relative  of 
mine — far  off — a  very  clever  fellow,  who  I'm  afraid  has 
had  a  rather  hard  struggle.  I  met  him  once  in  this 
district,  and  we  knew  him  for  a  time;  but  I'm  afraid 
he's  rather  lost  sight  of  us." 

"He  must  be  entirely  without  gratitude;  kindness  is 
ill-repaid  .  .  ."  said  Mr.  Vanamure,  greatly  moved. 

"Oh  no!"  Mr.  Evandine  assured  him.  "My  impres- 
sion is  quite  otherwise." 

Mrs.  Evandine  heard  nothing  more.  She  could  not 
help  letting  her  shrewd,  clear,  mother  eye  fall  upon 
Priscilla;  and  Priscilla,  screened  by  flowers  from  her 
father,  seemed  to  allow  her  thoughts  to  continue.  Her 
face  was  quite  changed,  as  if  it  had  been  reawakened. 
But  presently,  as  though  she  had  not  been  breathing,  she 
sighed,  her  eyes  almost  closing;  and  a  slow  faint  colour 
came  into  her  cheeks,  increasing  until  it  spread  to  her 
temples.  As  if  doubtfully  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
at  her  mother,  immediately  again  averting  her  glance. 

With  the  slightest  emphasis  upon  her  consciousness 
Mrs.  Evandine  pressed  home,  as  it  were,  the  significance 
of  that  glance.     She,  too,  sighed. 


CHAPTER  II:   WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW 


FROM  the  days  when  Upper  Street,  Islington,  was  a 
prosperous  shopping  centre,  a  long  range  of  hand- 
somely decorated  and  window-dressed  drapers  and 
clothiers,  to  these  present  days  when  most  of  the  shops 
show  dusty,  drawn  blinds,  and  the  stagnating  bills  of 
estate  agents,  is  no  far  cry.  The  increase  in  cheap  con- 
veyance direct  to  the  great  shops  of  the  West  End  of 
London,  and  the  huger,  more  varied  selections  of  stock 
offered  by  these  great  shops,  have  combined  to  draw  off 
many  old-time  purchasers  of  goods  in  Islington.  More 
still  have  passed  with  the  general  emigration  to  the  coun- 
try or  the  farther  suburbs  of  well-to-do  Londoners,  at 
one  time  resident  in  the  large  houses  of  Islington  and 
Highbury  and  Barnsbury.  All  that  remains,  apart  from 
a  few  old-established  firms  with  familiar  names,  is  this 
long  row  of  empty  shops,  studded  here  and  there  with 
glittering  kinema  halls  and  picture  palaces,  all  the  more 
gloomy  because  of  the  bright  portals  of  the  palaces,  and 
given  over  to  a  nightly  promenade  of  the  young  girls  and 
the  young  men  of  the  decayed  district.  So  Upper  Street 
and  its  melancholy  neighbours  all  round,  from  miserable 
Pentonville  and  grimy  City  Road  (where  that  "Eagle" 
lived  that  led  roisterers  to  sing  "Pop  goes  the  Weasel") 
to  wretched  Liverpool  and  Essex  Roads,  present  to  the 
eye  a  depressing  picture  of  shabby  life  hard  to  be  toler- 
ated by  the  eager  spirit.  To  have  been  born  in  a  street 
off  the  Upper  Street,  to  have  lived  there  for  a  short  life- 
time, to  be  held  in  that  neighbourhood  by  the  dominating 
inclination  of  others — that  was  the  lot  of  Stephen  Moore. 
The  house  in  which  the  Moores  lived,  of  which  they 

33 


34  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

occupied  the  two  upper  floors  out  of  five  floors  (includ- 
ing the  basement)  was  one  exactly  like  its  hundred  or 
two  hundred  fellows.  It  had  a  number — 52 — upon  the 
front  door,  but,  as  Dorothy  said,  that  was  only  to  prevent 
the  postman  from  calling.  The  house  was  very  solidly 
built  of  ugly  dun-coloured  brick,  the  rooms  were  large, 
and  the  lower  ones  were  fitted  with  old-fashioned  hang- 
ing chandeliers  of  an  imposing  character,  and  with  huge 
mantelpieces  that  dwarfed  any  but  the  most  substantial 
furniture.  Higher  up,  at  the  very  top  of  the  house,  the 
tale  was  different ;  but  even  here  the  three  bedrooms  were 
larger  than  the  bedrooms  allotted  to  those  who  live  in  the 
modern  Queen  Anne  villa.  In  these  three  bedrooms  slept 
the  Moores,  and  in  the  two  big  rooms  below  they  lived 
together.  John  Moore,  Stephen  Moore,  Roy  Moore,  and 
Dorothy  Moore.  John  Moore,  aged  56 ;  Stephen  Moore, 
aged  28;  Dorothy  Moore,  aged  21 ;  Roy  Moore,  aged  16. 
There  had  been  others  very  long  ago ;  but  none  had  sur- 
vived; and  now  Stephen  was  bread-winner  for  all  of 
them.  It  is  true  that  Roy  had  begun  to  earn  money,  that 
he  was  self-supporting.  It  is  true  that  John  occasionally 
spoke  of  work  which  was  engaging  his  attention.  But 
it  was  also  true  that  Dorothy  was  not  allowed  to  earn 
money,  and  it  is  quite  certain  that  Stephen  carried  the 
household  precariously — if  one  may  use  a  homely  figure 
that  suggests  the  tale  of  Sinbad  the  Sailor — upon  his 
back.  Only  Dorothy  knew  that,  through  her  conscience. 
She  had  sometimes  wondered  why  Stephen  did  not  for- 
sake them,  and  had  even  asked  Stephen  this  question  in 
so  many  words.  He  had  grumpily  told  her  that  it  was 
no  business  of  hers,  that  even  if  he  could  bring  himself 
to  do  such  a  thing,  the  old  man  would  track  him  down. 
.  .  .  That  was  undeniable.  She  could  see  the  old  man 
doing  it.  The  old  man,  she  knew,  was  such  a  marvel- 
lous actor,  such  an  infernal  liar.  He  would  go  round 
spinning  pathetic  yarns  about  his  defaulting  son,  he  would 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  35 

destroy  Stephen's  good  name,  and  he  would  in  the  end 
discover  where  Stephen  was,  and  once  more,  like  the 
grim  wolf  of  inescapable  poverty,  establish  there  his  com- 
fortable quarters.  So  Stephen  continued  to  support  the 
Moores.  Dorothy  wondered  what  would  be  the  end  of 
his  patience — if,  for  instance,  he  would  have  supported 
half  a  dozen  of  them.  She  never  dared  to  ask  him.  She 
only  knew  that  the  old  man  was  sure  somehow  to  be 
supported  by  somebody.  She  guessed  that,  failing 
Stephen,  it  might  have  been  by  herself.  The  old  man 
had  no  false  pride,  Dorothy  realized. 


11 

It  was  evening,  and  Dorothy  was  alone.  In  the  street 
the  sun  still  sent  its  hot  final  light  against  the  upper 
windows  of  the  houses  opposite,  which  looked  as  if  some 
dreary  person's  dream  of  endless  52's  was  being  developed 
into  a  nightmare  through  the  use  of  a  distorting  mirror. 
Dorothy  had  laid  a  meal,  a  light  meal  of  potted  meat  and 
salad,  and  a  jugful  of  water,  and  some  cheese  and  a  home- 
made cake,  upon  the  dining-room  table.  She  was  waiting 
for  Stephen  to  come  home  and  join  her.  Roy  would  not 
be  here  for  another  two  hours,  the  old  man  might  come 
in  at  any  time,  and  Stephen  could  not  work  at  night  upon 
a  heavy  meal.  Dorothy  sat  by  the  open  window  with  her 
hands  crossed  in  her  lap,  and  once  lifted  them  to  look  at 
the  lines  on  their  palms  and  their  already  work-worn 
fingers. 

"Yes/'  she  said  aloud.  "It's  all  very  well  to  look  at 
them.     Little  beast." 

She  forced  her  eyes  away,  to  a  contemplation  of  the 
brown  wall-paper,  and  crushed  her  handkerchief  into  a 
ball  between  her  offendingly  seamed  fingers. 

"Years  hence,"  she  thought,  "I'll  tell  Stephen  how 
much  I  hate  brown  as  a  colour.     Perfectly  filthy,  it  is. 


36  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Perhaps  not  all  brown;  but  chocolate  and  wall-paper 
browns  and  every  faded  brown  under  the  sun."  She 
sank  into  a  reverie,  in  the  course  of  which  she  skimmed 
across  the  years  that  lay  before  them  in  a  vista  of  endless 
time.  She  perceived,  with  a  sort  of  understanding  which 
is  not  cynicism,  but  which  is  the  fruit  of  a  girl's  early 
experience  of  such  hard  things  as  want  and  discomfort, 
that  those  years  could  only  be  reached  with  toil — on  the 
part  of  Stephen — and  with  endurance  upon  her  own  part. 
She  longed  for  them  with  a  passion  that  made  her  really 
press  herself  physically  together  and  forward  in  her  chair, 
as  though  she  were  about  to  leap;  but  her  experience, 
which  had  made  her  a  woman  years  before,  when  her 
mother  died,  kept  Dorothy  from  really  happy  expecta- 
tion. She  believed  in  Stephen.  She  believed  that  if 
anybody  could  manage  to  bridge  those  years  with  means 
to  a  wider  life,  Stephen  could  do  it.  But  she  had  no 
illusion.  Stephen  might  fail.  He  was  living  on  his 
brains,  working  and  working  and  working,  without 
friends,  without  help,  without  any  real  joy  that  he  did 
not  get  from  the  work  itself;  and  he  might  fail.  You 
couldn't  work  as  he  insisted  upon  doing  without  injuring 
yourself.  It  stood  to  reason.  Here  was  Roy,  content  to 
work  his  regular  hours  for  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and 
in  the  evening  to  mooch  the  streets  with  his  boy  friends, 
strolling  in  the  wake  of  girls  who  looked  back  and  laughed 
and  waited  round  corners,  and  walked  back  when  pursuit 
ceased.  .  .  .  Dorothy  knew  all  about  that.  She  had  not 
done  it  herself — "That's  why  I'm  here,"  she  thought, 
"instead  of  married  to  thirty  shillings  a  week  when  I 
was  nineteen,  as  some  of  them  are" — but  she  could  not 
help  knowing  all  about  it,  just  as  she  had  smelt  Roy's 
breath  the  first  time  he  had  smoked.  .  .  .  And  here  was 
Stephen,  who  until  two  years  ago  had  been  a  clerk,  just 
as  Roy  was,  working  all  day  and  sometimes  far  into  the 
night — learning,  making  up  for  lost  education,  gathering 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  37 

scraps  of  all  sorts,  writing,  reading,  compiling  bibliogra- 
phies, going  to  the  British  Museum  to  "search"  on  starva- 
tion wages,  pushing  his  way  slowly  into  a  part  of  the 
world  that  had,  socially,  no  use  for  him,  though  at  last 
it  would  be  bound  to  admit  and  tolerate  his  brains.  Here, 
then,  was  Stephen,  making  himself  a  dull  boy,  steadily 
wearing  out  his  nerves  and  his  temper  and  his  bodily 
strength,  earning  very  little  money — barely  enough  to 
keep  them — and  growing  sore  and  sulky  and  pessimistic 
and  gloomy  and  abstracted  and  uncommunicative.  Why 
was  he  doing  it?  For  Roy,  she  supposed,  and  for  her- 
self; though  she  knew  more  of  Roy's  doings  than  he 
seemed  to  know,  and  though  she  would  have  sacrificed 
a  good  deal  of  her  own  immunity  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
him  more  cheerful,  and  for  the  sake  of  having  some  work 
to  do  in  which  she  could  take  an  interest.  Could  anybody 
take  an  interest  in  this  ugly  old  place,  with  the  massy 
pretentious  bell-pulls  and  brown  Venetian  blinds,  and  the 
everlasting  dullness  of  the  ugly  brown  wall-paper  and 
grey  cracked  ceilings?  Could  anybody  take  an  interest 
in  pretending  or  attempting  to  keep  clean  these  dead  old 
chairs  and  eternally  dusty  tables  and  ornaments  and 
mantelpieces  and  washstands  and  shelves  of  old  books? 
She  could  not  imagine  anybody  so  lost  to  a  sense  of 
human  decency  and  natural  life  as  to  enjoy  doing  such 
work.  It  was  like  perpetual  dish-washing — ugly,  depress- 
ing, distasteful.  It  was  something  to  be  loathed,  never 
in  all  her  days  to  be  escaped.  If  only  she  could  have 
gone  to  an  office !  Or  if  only  she  could  live  with  Stephen 
and — reluctantly — with  Roy  in  some  spotless  little  cot- 
tage with  damask  and  muslin  and  print  all  fresh  and  never 
dirty,  far  from  grimy  Islington,  deep  in  some  soft  unap- 
proachable countryside!  Where  the  local  vicar,  and  an 
ancient  gawky  farmer  or  two,  and  the  supercilious  maiden 
ladies  who  lived  in  the  village,  were  her  visitors,  and 
couldn't  help  finding  their  prejudices  against  her  melting 


38  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

away  when  they  found  how  simple  and  unaffected  and 
truly  sweet  she  was !  Stephen  in  that  case  would  be 
greatly  respected — "the  writer  gentleman  from  Lunnon" 
— and  the  big  man  of  the  district  would  say  to  him  con- 
descendingly, "Oh,  are  you  any  relation  to  the  Moore 
whose  last  book  I  have  just  been  reading  with  inexpres- 
sible admiration  ?"  And  Stephen  would  snap  out  like  the 
Carlyle  she  figured  him — no,  he'd  be  a  little  shy,  and  turn 
away  ...  to  hide  a  soft  flush.  .  .  .  And  the  big  man's 
sister  would  say  to  him,  with  a  melting  eye.  .  .  . 

Dorothy's  reverie  was  pulled  up  short  by  her  cold 
knowledge  of  facts.  It  was  all  very  well.  Stephen  was 
a  great  man.  She  knew  what  she  was  talking  about. 
"Years  hence"  (as  she  was  fond  of  saying),  when  he 
was  tired  out  and  could  no  longer  do  his  best  work,  he 
would  be  proclaimed  and  celebrated  as  Phil  May  was; 
although  his  greatness  was  even  now  glaringly  present, 
and  closely  deserved  the  ecstatic  celebration  which  she  was 
sure  went  only  momentarily  astray.  But  even  if  he  could 
do  it  for  himself,  for  her  .  .  .  even  if  he  could  do  it — 
rather  reluctantly  she  thought  it — for  Roy,  he  could 
never,  never,  never  do  it  as  long  as  the  old  man  was 
there  like  a  hideous  barnacle  .  .  .  horrible  spider,  a 
beastly  anemone,  alive  as  by  instinct  to  the  floating 
fragments  of  good  fortune  which  came  within  his  range, 
absorbing  all  the  good  and  expelling  upon  the  surface 
of  life  the  indigestible  remnants  of  his  stolen  nutriment. 

"You  see,"  Dorothy  explained  to  herself  after  delib- 
erate consideration,  "the  old  man's  such  a  damned 
rascal !" 

iii 

If  Stephen  had  come  a  moment  earlier  he  would  have 
been  surprised  to  hear  such  a  speech  from  Dorothy.  But 
the  words  were  lost  in  air  by  the  time  the  sound  of  his 
steps  upon  the  final  flight  became  audible.    He  came  into 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  39 

the  room  slowly,  rather  wearily,  and  put  down  along 
with  his  hat  a  couple  of  books  fastened  together  by  a 
webbing  strap.  Dorothy  instantly  whipped  the  kettle 
from  her  oil-stove  in  the  fireplace,  where  it  was  sighing 
indignantly  and  clouding  the  air  with  its  vehement  breath. 
When  Stephen  turned  round  again  the  tea  was  half  made, 
and  she  was  watching  the  water  cream  and  mantle  in  the 
teapot's  gloomy  vastnesses.  As  she  passed  to  the  table 
she  pressed  his  arm  with  an  affectionate  irrepressible 
gesture. 

"Nice  and  early,"  Dorothy  said.  "Hoped  you  would 
be."     She  smiled  at  him  with  quick  delight. 

Stephen  in  reply  made  a  sound  too  much  like  a  grunt 
to  be  perfectly  responsive  to  her  cheerful  greeting,  and 
then,  without  a  further  word,  seated  himself.  He  was 
not  very  tall — about  five  feet  eight — was  rather  squarely 
built,  walked  with  a  noticeable  limp,  and  his  complexion 
was  both  dark  and  pale,  almost  to  sallowness.  The  face 
was  aggressive,  partly  because  his  head  was  thrown  back, 
partly  because  Stephen's  dissatisfied  mouth  gave  one  the 
expectation  of  biting  speeches.  His  eyes  were  very  fine, 
a  fact  which  was  due  to  his  brave  spirit  as  well  as  to  that 
short-sightedness  which  sometimes  makes  eyes  appear 
to  shine.  The  air  of  defiance  which  characterized  his 
appearance  was  not  without  its  intriguing  powers:  one 
certainly  wanted  to  know  more  of  him,  to  imagine  the 
reasons  and  the  qualities  which  gave  him  an  air  of  stub- 
born intellectual  power.  And  if  Stephen  was  not  strictly 
handsome  he  was  at  least  distinguished-looking,  for  his 
nose  was  straight,  and  his  bitter  mouth  clean-cut.  To 
the  eye  his  beauty  might  have  ended  there  in  a  sense  of 
disappointment;  but  the  manner  with  which  he  fronted 
the  world — "an  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command" 
— was  not  the  surest  guide  to  his  nature.  If  it  had  been, 
if  the  hardness,  the  coldness  which  was  sometimes  attrib- 
uted to  Stephen  Moore  by  patrician  critics,  educated  in 


40  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

more  indulgent  methods,  had  been  all  that  was  true  about 
him,  he  could  not  have  retained  the  love  of  his  impulsive 
sister.  Dorothy  loved  him,  not  thoughtlessly,  but  deeply 
and  passionately,  as  a  mother  might  have  done.  Those 
whom  Dorothy  loved  had  first  to  prove  their  integrity,  for 
she  was  very  exacting  and  saw  much  further  than  most 
girls  of  her  somewhat  immature  age.  Her  love  for  him 
penetrated  even  his  taciturnity.  He  was  the  one  real 
person  she  knew,  whose  word  was  truth,  whose  will  was 
not  obstinate  weakness,  whose  intention  was  not  so  much 
honourable  as  honest.  She  likened  him  to  a  chisel;  but 
it  must  be  supposed  that  she  thought  of  him  as  a  chisel 
with  a  merciful  heart  and  an  understanding  which,  if  it 
was  never  warm,  was  at  least  surprising  in  its  depth  and 
range.  It  was  her  particular  vanity  to  believe  that  she 
understood  him,  and  that  nobody  else  could  do  so. 

"Beside  your  plate,"  Dorothy  briefly  announced,  "is 
a  letter.     Kindly  read  it." 

Stephen  took  up  the  letter  without  interest,  and  opened 
it  immediately. 

"Dear  Moore,"  the  letter  said, — "My  father  is  greatly 
delighted  with  what  you  have  written  about  his  book. 
I  understand  that  you  know  him  well  enough  to  believe 
that.  He  wants  to  see  you,  and  as  I  have  a  note  of  your 
address  I  promised  to  ask  you  to  come  up  one  evening 
either  to  dinner  or  after  dinner,  or  next  Sunday,  say,  to 
tea.  Do  try  and  come.  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  an  oppor- 
tunity to  talk  to  you  again;  and  my  mother  and  sister 
both  look  forward  to  your  coming.  Make  it  Sunday  if 
you  can  possibly  spare  the  time.  There  are  some  things 
I  should  like  to  show  you  in  daylight — may  I  mention 
some  Flaxman  and  Sandys  prints?  You'll  know,  after 
our  last  talk,  why  I  think  of  them  in  connexion  with  you. 
Yours  sincerely,  David  Evandine." 

Stephen  allowed  the  letter  to  slide  back  from  his  hand 
to  the  table,  and  Dorothy,  watching  his  face  for  some 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  41 

sign  of  pleasure  or  of  displeasure,  saw  no  change  at  all 
in  his  expression.  His  face,  then,  told  her  nothing,  and 
she  waited  in  vain  for  some  further  communication. 

"Nothing?"  she  at  length  asked,  almost  wistfully,  and 
came  near  enough  to  read  the  first  page  of  the  letter, 
written  in  David's  fine  but  lazy  handwriting.  When 
Stephen  answered  it  was  with  a  reflective  hesitation,  as 
though  the  letter  had  been  unwelcome  as  suggesting 
thoughts  unconnected  with  its  subject-matter. 

"Nothing  you'd  be  interested  in." 

Dorothy  grimaced.  It  was  clear  that  she  was  being 
told  to  mind  her  own  business. 

"It's  from  the  man — or  the  son  of  the  man — who 
wrote  this  week's  book,"  she  urged.  "I  can  see  that 
much."     Stephen's  foot  tapped  irritably. 

"Yes,  yes.     Asking  me  to  go  and  see  them." 

"Oh!"  Dorothy's  tone  was  one  of  pleasure.  "How 
nice!" 

"But  I  shan't  go." 

"You  won't  go?  Why  ever  not?"  She  was,  to  all 
appearance,  amazed.  As  he  did  not  answer  she  con- 
tinued eagerly :  "Aren't  they  very  influential  people — 
the  Evandines?"  Dorothy  was  so  bent  upon  his  career, 
anxious  that  he  should  use  every  advantage;  and  yet 
she  was  not  altogether  so  experienced  in  Stephen  as  to 
leave  the  decision  to  him  or  even,  as  an  older  woman 
would  have  done,  to  appear  to  do  so. 

"Influential.  .  .  .  What  does  that  matter?"  asked 
Stephen  sharply. 

"Well,  this  father  person :  isn't  he  a  big  man,  one  of 
the  mandarins?  Doesn't  he  write  the  books  that  get 
fawned  on  by  all  his  newspaper  friends?"  Dorothy  had 
learned — but  never  from  her  brother — a  curious  sort  of 
inaccurate  knowledge  of  Press  methods.  She  was  so 
entirely  partisan  that  she  exaggerated  the  power  of 
literary  snobbishness,   far  beyond  the  negligible  coterie 


42  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

and  into  the  whole  literary   world.      Stephen   checked 
her. 

"You're  talking  nonsense,"  he  said. 

"What's  sense,  then?" 

"You're  bothering  me." 

"For  once.     Stephen,  dear.     Please!" 

Unwillingly  he  responded  to  her  pleading. 

"He's  a  very  cultured  man  who  dabbles  in  books.  He's 
not  a  critic.  Everybody  likes  him,  and  knows  he's  a 
decent  sort.  He  knows  everybody.  His  books  are  well 
written,  inaccurate,  superficial,  and  very  delightful  to 
read.  If  you  don't  know  anything — and  that's  the  case 
with  most  people — they're  extremely  good.  It's  called 
'Reading  without  tears,'  "  said  Stephen  perfunctorily. 

"But  if  you  go  there  you'll  meet  these  people,  and 
they'll  appreciate  you.  .  .  ." 

"That's  not  probable." 

"Will  they  want  to  know  what  school  you  went  to?" 
she  flashed  at  him. 

"Yes,"  Stephen  said.     "Some  of  them  would." 

"The  beasts!" 

"Don't  be  silly.  Other  people  spy  out  your  family 
history.  If  they're  going  to  'know'  you  they  want  to 
know  where  you're  from,  and  what  your  father  was." 

"And  is!"  Dorothy  said  with  a  sudden  viciousness. 
"Oh,  but  your  school,  Steve!  It's  too  silly.  You'll 
have  to  say  'privately  educated.'  "  She  began  to  laugh. 
"But  do  go." 

In  her  pink,  starched  cotton  dress,  as  she  stood  before 
him  with  rebellious  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  Dorothy 
looked  curiously  out  of  congruity  with  the  words  she  was 
using.  Although,  like  her  brother,  she  was  dark,  she 
coloured  so  swiftly,  and  was  so  very  slight  and  roguish- 
looking,  that  she  still  looked  a  child  until  one  saw  how 
wise  and  motherly  were  the  two  brown  eyes  from  which 
she  regarded  the  world. 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  43 

Stephen  tried  to  assume  that  the  discussion  was  ended, 
and  accordingly  there  was  a  little  silence;  but  Dorothy's 
blood  was  up,  and  his  repressive  methods  only  aroused 
a  determination  really  more  active  than  his  own. 

"Shall  you  go?"  she  asked  him. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  on.     I  don't  think  I  shall 

go-" 

"They  can't  do  without  you.  These  people !  It's  your 
brains  they  want." 

"You  .  .  .  are  .  .  .  being  .  .  .  very  .  .  .  ridiculous,"  he 
told  her  emphatically.  "There's  absolutely  no  need  to 
talk  in  that  way.  If  I  write  well  I  shall  certainly  make 
money  and  reputation.  If  I  don't  I  shall  certainly  not 
make  a  reputation,  though  I  may  make  money.  No 
amount  of  excited  feeling  alters  the  logic  of  that.  And 
I  prefer  to  make  reputation  through  work.  It's  easier 
and  more  dignified.  Do  you  suppose  a  man  who  goes 
toting  round  everywhere  gets  anything  lasting?  He  may 
get  boosted  into  jobs  for  a  time;  but " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"In  the  long  run,  yes,  Steve.  But  editors  don't  read — 
you  told  me  that  yourself.  They  meet  you  at  dinner  or 
lunch  or  tea,  and  make  it  a  friendly  affair." 

"You  make  me  very  tired,  Dorothy,"  he  said.  "You've 
been  reading  some  absurd  nonsense — some  novel,  I  expect 
— and  mixing  it  up  with  things  I've  said.  You  mustn't 
expect  me  to  make  money  or  reputation  quickly,  because 
the  whole  explanation  is  simply  that  I  can't  and  don't 
write  novels.  I'm  a  critic.  It's  the  novelist  who  has  to 
skip  round,  so  that  he  can  be  adored  and  patronized  and 
written  about.  And  then  he  sometimes  finds  that  when 
he  sells  too  largely  all  his  skipping  lands  him  only  in  a 
bad  Press.  He  becomes  ridiculous  and  distasteful,  and 
has  to  console  himself  with  his  sales.  But  that  doesn't 
apply  to  me." 

"You're  trying  to  put  me  off.    I  want  you  to  go  to  the 


44  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Evandines,  as  you're  invited.  And  you  won't  go  because 
there's  some  secret  reason  why  you  shouldn't."  Dorothy 
was  moving  impatiently  at  his  wilful  stubbornness — with 
an  irritation  quite  beyond  the  needs  of  the  moment.  That 
was  because  memory  was  stirring  in  her  thoughts,  react- 
ing upon  her  jealousy,  her  every  quick  impulse  of  loyalty 
and  responsibility. 

Stephen  started.  He  could  not  help  starting,  for  her 
sudden  dash  into  the  world  of  motives  had  been  dictated 
by  that  rising  anger  which  pulls  away  reserves  and  opens 
the  way  for  biting  disclosures  of  thoughts  long  held. 
Accusations  might  well  follow,  showing  him  an  unsus- 
pected Dorothy  drawing  upon  her  sequestered  stores  of 
intuition  concerning  him — a  dangerous  critic,  using  in 
her  lightning  heat  words  and  thoughts  that  would  never 
be  forgotten.  Nevertheless  he  tried  to  quell  her  by 
haughty  indifference. 

"Secret  reason?"  he  demanded. 

"What  then?  If  it's  not  that,  what  is  it?  I  think 
you  ought  to  go,"  she  vehemently  urged.  "I  think  you 
owe  it  to  yourself  and  this  man  who  asks  you  to  go." 

Stephen  made  no  reply;  and  that  seemed  to  move  her 
still  nearer  to  the  verge  of  anger.  With  a  last  attempt 
to  reach  some  simple  but  convincing  reason  for  his  un- 
necessary refusal  to  do  a  pleasant  thing  for  his  own  good 
and  his  own  credit,  she  demanded : 

"Is  it  the  old  man?"  That  was  always  with  Dorothy 
a  dominant  thought — almost  an  obsession. 

Stephen  moved  impatiently,  obviously  relieved  and  yet 
impatient  at  her  new  course.  He  pushed  his  chair  back 
and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"No,  no,  no,"  he  said. 

"They  wouldn't  want  to  come  here."  She  sprang  to 
another  difficulty — this  time  the  social  one. 

"No."  He  smiled  grimly.  "There's  no  chance  of 
that." 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  45 

"Then  why  not?" 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

She  searched  his  face,  a  sudden  dread  in  her  eyes. 
When  he  said  "I  can't  tell  you"  in  so  final  a  tone  she 
could  say  no  more  than  "I  wish  you  would."  But 
this  she  said  in  so  gentle  a  voice  that  Stephen  per- 
haps did  not  hear  her.  He  slowly  reseated  himself, 
and  they  began  their  meal  in  silence.  For  a  long  time 
Dorothy  did  not  speak,  but  at  last  she  could  bear  it 
no  longer. 

"Is  it  because  you  don't  trust  me,  or  because  it's  some- 
thing unpleasant,  Steve?" 

Now  in  his  preoccupation,  and  in  the  confusion  of  his 
manifestly  conflicting  wishes,  Stephen  was  jangled  quite 
out  of  patience  even  by  her  humble  voice. 

"Oh,  I  wish — "  he  began  in  a  strangled  voice.  His 
fierce  temper  had  broken  out.  It  was  only  with  a  violent 
effort  that  he  controlled  it.  "My  dear,"  he  said  with  a 
deliberate  steadiness,  the  condescension  of  which  she 
found  unbearable,  "I've  told  you  I  can't  tell  you.  Don't 
you  see  that  that's  enough?" 

"You  don't  trust  me.  Me — that  only  lives  .  .  ."  she 
began  gaspingly.  "Oh!  I  know  that's  not  grammar. 
But  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it.  You  ought  to  tell  me. 
There  can  be  nothing  I  oughtn't  to  know.  Here  are  two 
men.  You  don't  know  them  well,  they're  not  friends. 
But  you  do  know  them.  They  might  help  you  to  do 
what  you  want  to  do.  Yet  you  won't  tell  me  .  .  .  you 
won't  tell  me.  And,  of  course,  I  know  very  well  what 
it  is.  I  know  very  well.  You  won't  tell  me,  but  you 
can't  help  my  knowing  more  than  you  think.  I  know 
you  used  to  go  there.  Why,  do  you  think  I  don't  know 
why  ?  Do  you  think  I  suppose  it  was  to  talk  books  .  .  . 
to  see  an  old  man  .  .  .  ?"  Her  voice  was  trembling,  her 
eyes  were  moist.  She  felt  the  moment  was  desperate. 
Stephen  was  more  and  more  frowning,  and  his  mouth 


46  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

was  more  obstinately  twisted.  .  .  .  "How  can  you  be 
so  .  .  .  like  an  ostrich  .  .  .  ?" 

In  the  middle  of  her  passion  came  an  interruption  that 
froze  her. 

"And  what  is  my  daughter  agitating  herself  about?" 
asked  a  soothing  voice  from  the  doorway.  "Not,  I  hope, 
any  fault  in  the  immaculate  Stephen?  That  would  be 
unbelievable — quite  entirely  unbelievable !" 

Before  them  stood,  swaying  very  slightly,  the  tall  figure 
of  an  elderly  man  dressed  in  a  blue  serge  shaped  suit 
which  made  him  appear  much  younger  than  his  years. 
Upon  his  head  was  a  fashionable  bowler  hat.  His  beam- 
ing eyes  shone  with  a  happy  light.  His  teeth,  showing  in 
a  regularity  which,  for  his  age,  was  quite  beyond  unques- 
tioning acceptance,  were  clenched  in  an  immovable  smile. 
His  head  was  very  slowly  being  shaken  from  side  to  side, 
archly,  deprecatingly. 

"Singularly  unusual,"  he  proceeded.  "A  singularly 
unusual  state  of  affairs.  The  immaculate,  spotless,  won- 
derful paragon  Stephen  being  subjected  to  a  daughterly 
tirade.  .  .  .  Really  quite  shocking.  .  .  .  Must  protest. 
Must  really  protest.  Simply  unable  to  stand  the  strain 
.  .  .  anything  so  grossly  improbable,  so  astonishing.  .  .  . 
Sordid.  .  .  .  The  singularly  virtuous  and  priggish 
Stephen,  to  whom  we  owe  our  all,  our  very  existence 
as  a  family,  by  his  own  account,  sitting  haughtily  there 
listening  to  perfectly  violent  tirade  from  affectionate 
sister.  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  old  man. 

iv 

In  manner,  the  old  man  easily  set  an  example  to  his 
children.  His  further  movements  were  characterized  by 
a  jauntiness  and  a  bodily  grace  that  were  peculiar  to 
himself.  He  removed  his  hat  with  an  air,  and  turned 
towards  the  table  with  a  slow  swing  that,  even  if  it 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  47 

slightly  wavered,  which  his  smile  never  did,  was  theatrical 
in  its  finish.  Stephen's  perturbed  eye  took  in  the  spotted- 
bordered  handkerchief  that  peeped  from  his  father's 
breast-pocket,  the  equally  spotted  bow  that  symmetrically 
adorned  his  father's  almost — but  not  quite — spotless 
three-inch  linen  collar.  He  revolted  at  so  venerable  a 
beau.  Yet  his  father's  face,  perfectly  shaven,  was  sur- 
prisingly fresh  and  clear ;  and  his  father's  eyes,  although 
glassy,  were  bright  with  the  radiance  of  a  healthy  liver. 
Only  somehow,  to  Stephen's  fastidious  observation,  there 
was  something  disgusting,  almost  obscene,  in  the  old 
man's  appearance.  It  may  have  been  prejudice,  but 
Stephen  was  certainly  aware  of  it.  But  then  Stephen 
knew  how  well  the  old  man  could  carry  his  drink,  and 
he  knew  that  this  mood  of  dangerous  polish,  helped  by 
the  graces  of  a  past  day,  could  have  been  engendered 
only  by  a  long  busy  afternoon  with  the  glass  and  the 
bottle. 

Putting  aside  the  subject  upon  which  he  had  spoken 
earlier,  the  old  man  suavely  turned  to  Stephen,  as  if  he 
had  been  recently  introduced. 

"Singular  pleasure  to  find  you  exceedingly  early 
to-night,"  he  gracefully  said.  "By  no  means  excepted 
.  .  .  expected.  We  understand,  my  boy.  Yes,  we  un- 
derstand. The  old  man  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  with  dignity, 
nodding,  and  saying,  several  times  over,  the  word  "Yes." 
When  Stephen  moved  away  from  the  table  he  started, 
and  smiled  tenderly  and  inquiringly.  "What  was  that? 
Did  you  speak?"  he  asked.  Now  it  was  remarkable  that 
neither  Dorothy  nor  Stephen  had  spoken  at  all  since  the 
old  man's  entrance,  as  he  presently  seemed  to  become 
aware;  for  he  again  stood  up,  and  then,  with  increased 
dignity,  went  out  of  the  room  and  up  the  stairs.  They 
heard  him  turn  the  key  in  the  door  of  his  bedroom. 

A  sigh  broke  from  Dorothy. 

"Sickening,"  she  said.    "Perfectly  sickening.    Stephen, 


48  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

forget  that  I  was  waxy.  I  didn't  mean  to  be.  But  oh! 
Steve,  do  go  to  the  Evandines.  Even  to  get  away  from 
the  old  man  for  a  bit.  Wouldn't  it  be  beastly  if  he  in- 
sisted on  calling  on  them?  I  hid  the  letter  when  he  came 
in.  He'd  go  and  call,  and  sit  there  talking,  and  they'd 
never  know  he  was  .  .  .  and  he'd  borrow  half  a  crown 
— or  try  to — from  the  maid.  He'd  go  back.  'Singularly 
unfortunate — left  my  purse.'  And  he'd  go  over  and  over 
again.  How  do  people  escape  the  old  man?  Does  he 
get  tired  of  them?" 

"I  expect  so,"  Stephen  answered.  "Who  knows?" 
"He  makes  you  wretched,  I  know,"  she  went  on.  "So 
he  does  me.  But  not  so  wretched  as  he  makes  you.  I 
think  he  hates  you,  Stephen."  Stephen  took  no  notice, 
but  unstrapped  his  two  review  books  in  order  to  look 
more  closely  at  them.    "I  believe  you  hate  him." 

Stephen  was  wondering  where  the  old  man  had 
obtained  the  money  for  his  carouse.  It  was  a  constant 
subject  for  speculation,  for  sometimes  the  signs  so  visible 
to-day  had  in  the  past  been  accompanied  by  the  loss  of 
books,  or  clothing,  or  even  small  pieces  of  furniture,  all 
of  which,  where  possible,  had  had  to  be  redeemed. 
Stephen  knew  that  some  impulse  more  insistent  than 
the  mere  desire  for  rest  or  solicitude  must  have  taken 
the  old  man  up  to  his  bedroom.  He  was  trying  to 
remember  any  illuminating  bulge  in  the  old  man's  coat. 
But  as  that  opened  such  a  field  of  useless  speculation  he 
took  the  books  over  to  the  window,  and  sat  there  with 
them  while  Dorothy  cleared  the  table.  There  was  no 
smile  on  Stephen's  face.  He  seriously  opened  one  of 
the  books  and  deliberately  cut  a  page  so  that  he  might 
read  the  preface.  This  was  the  work  by  which  he  would 
pay  next  week's  housekeeping  expenses.  It  was  bread 
and  butter  for  them  all,  and  part  of  it  was  possibly  stimu- 
lant for  the  insatiable  old  man.  If  Dorothy,  with  her 
incorrigible   forward-looking  to   some    favourable  time 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  49 

"years  hence,"  could  think  hopefully  of  the  future, 
Stephen  could  not,  for  the  sake  of  his  immediate  self- 
respect,  see  any  such  seductive  vista.  For  him  the  first 
need  was  the  means  of  livelihood.  If  he,  too,  had  his 
dreams  they  were  never  expressed,  and  perhaps  he  had 
no  dreams.  Perhaps  he  had  had  dreams  in  the  past — too 
many  dreams — all  now  overwhelmed  by  inexorable  cir- 
cumstances through  which  he  could  penetrate  only  by 
strict  attention  to  business.  His  face  lost  its  defiance  as 
he  read,  and  Dorothy  crept  about  on  tiptoe  until  she  had 
finished  her  work. 

Once  or  twice  she  stole  a  glance  at  him  as  he  sat  by 
the  window.  The  sunlight  had  risen  above  the  tops  of 
the  opposite  houses,  and  the  whole  street  was  in  shadow. 
The  sky  was  filmed  over  with  the  first  dimness  of  the 
long  evening  to  come.  In  the  street  there  were  only 
occasional  sounds,  and  only  at  intervals  could  Dorothy 
hear  the  tramcars  grinding  along  the  Upper  Street,  or 
their  rivals  the  red  motor-omnibuses  blaring  out  a  dull 
buzz-rumble  as  they  swayed  past  the  end  of  the  road.  It 
was  very  quiet  that  evening,  very  still  and  hot,  but  even 
here  not  oppressive.  Dorothy  fell  again  into  a  reverie. 
It  seemed  to  her  so  pleasant  to  be  in  the  room  with 
Stephen,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  must  not  speak  to 
him  during  his  work.  She  caught  his  profile  silhouetted 
against  the  light,  his  head  bent  over  the  book ;  and  it  made 
her  eyes  soften  to  see  the  black  curls  clustering  so  crisp 
and  strong  above  his  ears.  In  this  light  he  looked  almost 
handsome,  she  thought.  If  only —  But  if  she  began  to 
think  in  that  way  she  would  only  make  herself  miserable ; 
and  if  she  were  miserable  she  always  felt  very  lonely, 
quite  cut  off  from  any  sort  of  life  apart  from  Stephen 
.  .  .  and  Roy  .  .  .  and  the  old  man.    Poor  old  Stephen ! 

Thinking  that,  Dorothy  looked  at  him  again.  To  her 
inexpressible  astonishment  he  was  smiling  to  himself,  the 
book  lying  as  it  were  dead  upon  his  hands.     He  was  no 


50  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

more  reading  that  book  than  she  was !  Instinctively  she 
jerked  her  eyes  away,  and  a  frown  gathered.  What  was 
he  thinking  about?  She  remembered  her  own  angry 
words,  and  was  swept  again  by  the  jealousy  created  by 
her  impulsive  guess.  It  thrilled  her  from  head  to  foot, 
so  that  she  almost  exclaimed  aloud  in  her  sudden  passion. 
Only  by  clenching  her  hands  hard  did  Dorothy  check 
some  sound. 

When  the  gust  had  passed  she  once  more  turned  upon 
him  that  searching  childish  gaze  that  read  plain  messages 
from  his  face  and  his  attitudes.  The  smile  had  gone.  In 
its  place  reigned  dejection.  She  had  seen  him  look  tired, 
and  gloomy,  and  angry;  but  never  before  had  she  seen 
him  look  so  clearly  without  hope.  In  that  moment  even 
Dorothy's  spirit  quailed.  She  had  surprised,  it  seemed, 
the  innermost  secret  of  her  brother's  heart.  If  it  was 
despair;  if  Stephen  truly  saw  no  future  but  disaster,  of 
what  good  were  her  own  inventings?  And  why  did  he 
despair?  There  was  so  much  she  did  not  know.  Just 
as  she  could  only  feel  through  her  love  that  Stephen  was 
wise  as  a  critic,  and  distinguished  as  a  writer,  so  she 
could  only — in  the  last  resort — pretend  that  she  under- 
stood him.  It  was  the  hardest  blow  to  her  pride  to  realize 
this.  She  could  not  face  it  in  its  bare  truth.  She  had 
always  to  slur  over  her  difficulties  and  her  mystifications. 
How  impossible  it  was  to  keep  silent  any  longer!  She 
could  not  do  it! 

"Steve,  dear  .  .  ." 

Dorothy  was  quite  close  to  him,  her  arm  round  his 
shoulders,  her  sweet  soft  cheek  against  his  own.  Stephen 
returned  to  a  consciousness  of  the  room,  of  his  book; 
marvelling  at  her  perception  of  his  mood,  but  shy  again 
into  brusqueness  lest  she  should  intrude  too  nearly  into 
his  lately  engrossing  reflections.  Their  eyes  met,  hers 
beseeching,  his  quickly  veiled. 

"Dorothy!"  he  was  protesting;  when  she  pressed  her 


WHAT  DOROTHY  KNEW  51 

face  closer,  so  that,  cheek  to  cheek,  he  might  be  unable 
to  see  her  at  all. 

"Steve  ...  I  want  you  so  much  to  go,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Do  go.  I  want  you  to."  Then,  breathlessly, 
plunging  once  and  for  all  to  the  farthest  point  of  her 
most  intense  intuition,  she  said,  so  low  as  barely  to  be 
heard:  "If  she's  any  good  at  all  she'll  .  .  .  know.  Only, 
my  dearest,  tell  her!" 

Stephen  felt  her  tremble  as  she  clung  to  him.  He 
kissed  her. 

"You  don't  in  the  least  understand,"  he  whispered 
back.  "You're  inventing  a  story.  There's  nothing  .  .  . 
nothing.     I'll  think  of  it.     Now  stop !" 

Dorothy  drew  quickly  away  again,  but  she  caught  his 
hand  and  pressed  it.  She  never  forgot  that  evening  and 
his  sudden  gentleness;  for  her  excited  miserable  happi- 
ness and  the  mystified  convinced  ignorant  guess  which 
swam  together  in  her  heart  and  brain  made  there  such 
a  confusion,  a  sort  of  emotional  melange,  as  to  leave  her 
almost  dizzy  with  apprehensiveness.  She  guessed  that 
everybody  was  much  less  simple  than  she  had  assumed. 
Was  she,  therefore,  wrong?  Stephen's  face  had  recov- 
ered its  normal  look,  so  baffling,  so  unreadable.  Dorothy 
could  not  help  shrugging  her  shoulders.  The  half -elate 
fraction  of  consciousness  which  she  felt  they  had  shared 
was  lost  to  all  save  memory.  She  was  left  still  groping 
for  the  difficulty.  Only  she  was  now  sure,  from  his 
acceptance  of  her  meaning,  that  she  had  located  the  geo- 
graphical point  at  which  the  difficulty  might  be  said  to 
lie.  The  clue  was  somehow  to  be  found  at  the  Evandines, 
of  whom  she  knew  nothing  whatever.  And  it  was  to  be 
found  in  a  passionate  secret. 


CHAPTER  III:   STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT 


ON  Sunday  afternoon  Stephen  Moore,  dressed  to 
Dorothy's  approval  in  a  suit  of  blue  serge  much 
less  stylish  than  his  father's,  and  a  brown  soft  felt  hat 
of  a  venerable  character,  started  out  from  his  home  to 
walk  along  the  Upper  Street  until  he  reached  Highbury. 
This  he  did  in  order  to  economize  upon  his  fare.  He 
then  took  a  rather  crowded  tramcar  as  far  as  the  Archway 
Tavern ;  and  his  transport  difficulties  became  acute.  The 
red  and  cream  tramcars  which  run  between  Upper  Hollo- 
way  and  High  Barnet  begin — or,  at  that  time,  began, 
since  it  is  true  that  in  these  days  different  arrangements 
exist — their  journey  at  the  Archway  Tavern,  just  beside 
a  huge,  gaunt  workhouse  infirmary.  So  popular,  how- 
ever, is  the  Barnet  journey — at  any  rate  as  far  as  the 
Finchley  cemetery — that  huge  crowds  congregate  at  the 
starting-point  and  require  police  regulation  lest  those  of 
giant's  strength  should  exercise  a  tyranny  by  using  it 
in  a  pellmell  rush  for  the  tramcar.  And  it  was  at  the 
end  of  a  long  queue,  magically  extended,  a  moment  after 
his  arrival,  by  many  more  people  who  poured  from  every 
quarter,  that  Stephen  was  forced  to  take  his  place.  The 
huge  trams  slid  down  the  hill,  unloaded,  and  drew  like 
great  ships  up  to  the  level  of  the  waiting  crowd;  filled 
again;  and  gallantly  rode  once  more  to  the  romantic 
North.  Tram  after  tram  did  this,  until  Stephen  despaired 
of  ever  reaching  his  destination.  Even  when  his  turn 
came  at  last,  while  he  and  many  more  were  still  pressing 
and  clinging  on  their  way  to  seats,  the  gongs  sounded 
and  this  tram  also  moved  off,  between  the  infirmary  and 

52 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  53 

the  low  college  buildings  opposite.  Up  under  the  high 
archway  that  now  spans  the  road  it  ground  its  way ;  past 
that  romantic  junction  of  Archway  Road  with  North 
Hill,  Highgate,  which  marks  the  beginning  of  the  Great 
North  Road;  farther  to  Finchley;  and  so  on  to  Whet- 
stone, where  Totteridge  Lane  ran  westward  and  in  the 
direction  of  the  Evandines'  home.  There,  where  he  first 
again  saw  stretching  fields  of  radiant  green,  Stephen 
descended  from  the  tram  and  prepared  to  walk  the  rest 
of  his  journey. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  avoid  noticing  as  he 
walked  how  the  air  changed ;  how  the  molten  sky  of 
Islington  had  become  the  fathomless  blue  of  the  country ; 
and  how  the  larks  sang  their  thrilling  rapture  overhead. 
He  could  hardly  make  any  progress  down  the  slow  hill 
from  the  main  road  for  gazing  up  at  the  cloudless  sky 
and  loosing  his  cramped  spirit  among  the  sweetly  singing 
birds.  To  one  whose  days  were  spent  among  houses,  in 
hot  streets,  and  in  never-ending  application,  this  day 
seemed  of  all  others  like  a  happy  promise  not  easily  to 
be  reconciled  with  his  patient  thoughts.  And  more,  it 
recalled  with  painful  vividness  and  precision  the  last 
journey  he  had  made  upon  this  very  road.  The  memory 
and  the  thoughts  that  it  evoked  brought  him  once  to  a 
standstill  with  a  checked  groan  upon  his  lips.  For  a 
moment  his  steps  faltered;  he  almost  turned  back  along 
the  road — back  to  Islington  and  the  work  and  the  whole 
situation  he  had  left.  It  seemed  for  that  moment  that 
he  could  not  bear  to  go  forward.  Why  should  he  go? 
What  good  lay  before  him  at  his  journey's  end?  Only 
pain,  embarrassment,  humiliation,  could  come  of  this 
visit.  Why  should  he  revive  all  that  had  helped  to  make 
the  last  three  years  a  numbed  and  miserable  struggle 
with  penury,  when  they  might  gladly  have  been  given  to 
the  eager  striving  for  name  and  power  which  so  long  ago 
he  had  imagined?     True,  he  had  learned  a  great  deal 


54  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

about  himself  in  the  three  years.  He  had  learned  some 
at  least  of  his  limitations.  But  to  recognize  these  was 
never  to  accept  them.  The  recognition  had  only  made 
ambition  the  keener  and  the  more  bitter.  Stephen's  face 
grew  set;  the  hard  lines  in  his  brow  and  round  his  mouth 
were  like  gashes  as  he  walked ;  his  eyes,  which  were  like 
steel,  darkened  until  it  seemed  that  the  pupils  had  over- 
spread the  iris  to  the  very  edge.  As  he  brooded,  so  his 
steps  grew  slower,  more  uncertain;  so  his  shoulders  bent 
and  his  movements  became  heavy,  and  his  course  upon 
the  roadway  less  direct. 

And  it  was  while  he  was  thus  thinking,  while  his  mind 
was  thus  in  torment,  that  Stephen  heard  as  in  a  dream 
the  rough  insistent  hooting  of  a  motor-horn,  so  close 
behind  him  that  it  seemed  to  screech  in  his  ear;  and  a 
light-coloured  car  brushed  past  his  elbow,  almost  touch- 
ing him.  The  occupant  of  the  car,  turning,  waved  his 
arm,  and  impatiently  cried,  "Keep  on  the  path,  you  fool ! 
.  .  .  keep  on  the  path !"  And  Stephen,  roused  suddenly, 
stung  by  the  man's  insolent  manner,  burning  with  venge- 
fulness,  shouted  back  in  a  hoarse  voice  of  passion,  "Go 
to  hell!"  trembling  and  breathing  fast  at  the  motorist's 
ever-ready  assumption  of  the  wayfarer's  inferiority.  If 
it  had  not  been  too  late  he  would  have  struck  as  blindly 
as  he  spoke,  so  keenly  had  his  anger  been  awakened ;  but 
the  motor  was  already  far  ahead,  and  out  of  reach  even 
of  any  verbal  challenge.  He  was  thoroughly  awake  now, 
still  resentful  of  the  incident  as  marking  the  old  savage 
grievance  of  every  man  who  has  been  born  poor.  This 
was  its  significance — not  that  a  single  unidentified  motor- 
ist had  insulted  him,  not  that  the  motorist  had  been  within 
an  ace  of  injuring  him;  but  that  a  member  of  one  class 
had  assumed  a  right  over  a  member  of  a  poorer  class,  a 
prior  claim  to  the  common  road,  based  upon  his  power 
of  superior  speed.  While  to  the  driver  Stephen  was  sim- 
ply a  dawdling  fool,  to  Stephen  in  his  surge  of  reaction 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  55 

the  driver  was  representative  of  his  species.  Such  an 
individual  claim  will  always  awaken  in  poor  men  resent- 
ment against  a  class. 

That  was  the  first  meeting  of   Stephen  Moore  and 
Hilary  Badoureau. 


Thus  it  happened  that  there  was  a  large  gathering  that 
Sunday  afternoon  at  Stalcett,  the  Evandines'  home. 
Ethel  Clodd  was  there,  with  her  brother,  cloaked  in 
decency.  Hilary  was  there.  Stephen,  arriving  much 
later,  ill-tempered  and  dusty,  was  there.  Agg  had  arrived 
uninvited,  and  so  had  a  very  deaf  professor  of  Romance 
languages  and  Romance  in  general — a  man  upon  whom 
Romance  had  taken  apparently  a  cruel  revenge  for  his 
too  assiduous  and  academic  pursuit,  since  he  was 
markedly  decrepit.  When,  therefore,  Stephen  was  led 
out  of  doors,  by  that  same  door  through  which  Priscilla 
and  her  mother  had  entered  when  Mr.  Vanamure  visited 
them,  his  heart  was  like  lead  in  his  breast.  It  was  too 
bad  to  ask  him  to  meet  a  crowd  of  people  he  did  not  know ! 
With  all  the  arrogance  of  the  timid  and  solitary  person 
he  felt  it  as  an  affront.  It  made  him  conscious  of  his 
clothes  and  his  dusty  boots,  his  old  hat,  his  ignorance  of 
the  etiquette  governing  conduct  in  such  a  group.  And 
that  nervous  arrogance  reacted  upon  his  manner,  making 
it  almost  noticeably  brusque,  and  making  him  feel  all  the 
inconveniences  resulting  from  the  behaviour  of  conven- 
tionally bred  people  towards  those  whom  they  regard  as 
ill-bred,  or  towards  those  who  regard  themselves  as  ill- 
bred.  Stephen  knew,  of  them  all,  only  the  Evandines. 
He  had  never  met  even  Agg,  whose  rather  bizarre  per- 
sonality was  familiar  to  most  of  those  engaged  in  writing 
or  reading  books. 

As  a  cricketer  in  an  international  match  feels  when 
without  having  scored  he  returns  over  miles  of  close- 


56  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

shaven  grass  to  the  dismally  silent  pavilion,  so  Stephen, 
ushered  so  far  by  the  perfect  Biddy,  felt  in  crossing  that 
large  lawn  to  the  group  standing  far  away  in  the  shadow. 
Biddy's  manner,  as  tactful  as  that  of  a  hostess,  had  given 
him  no  hint  of  shortcoming;  but  he  had  flushed  to  see 
his  hat  so  patently  dilapidated  in  her  hand,  and  with 
chagrin  he  had  heard  his  own  steps  clatter  during  the 
journey  upon  the  uncarpeled  edge  of  a  long  passage. 
And  now,  when  Biddy,  seeing  that  Stephen  was  observed 
and  recognized,  was  giving  way,  he  seemed  bereft  of  all 
support.  But  at  that  moment  David  came  running 
towards  him,  and  in  the  quick  hand-clasp  there  was  the 
first  hint  of  friendship.  It  was  not  enough  to  make  the 
unwilling  visitor  comfortable;  but  it  was  a  beginning. 
Then  he  saw  Mrs.  Evandine,  then  was  introduced  to  the 
Clodds  and  to  Professor  Tidd  and  to  Agg.  To  all  of 
these  he  bowed  impatiently,  hating  them  for  his  own  hot, 
dusty  shabbiness.  But  his  eye  was  furtively  searching 
for  another  figure,  and  his  heart  was  heavily  beating  at 
her  absence.  Priscilla  was  not  there.  She  was  not  there. 
Not  there,  not  there,  beat  his  heart.  He  could  not  hear 
what  they  were  saying.  Was  it  possible  that  she  was 
away,  that  he  would  not  see  her?  Stephen  knew  now, 
without  any  disguise,  that  he  had  come  only  to  see 
Priscilla.  Everything  else  meant  the  merest  weariness 
of  polite  intercourse,  which  to  one  of  his  temper  was  a 
long  exasperation.  In  such  turbulent  distress  was  his 
mind  when  he  awoke  to  find  that  Mrs.  Evandine  was 
speaking  to  him. 

"Sit  here,  Mr.  Moore,"  she  was  saying.  "It's  so  very 
long  since  we  saw  you;  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what 
you've  been  doing." 

Stephen  shot  at  Mrs.  Evandine  a  look  that  was  sullen 
with  his  disappointment  and  with  the  still-pervading  sense 
of  shame  and  chagrin  resulting  from  his  dustiness;  and 
the  potent  resentment  which  he  still  felt  for  the  motorist's 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  57 

rudeness ;  and  the  feeling  that  when  all  was  said  and  done 
he  had  not  wanted  to  come  and  wished  he  had  stayed 
away.  He  supposed  from  her  courteous  tone  that  the 
social  baiting  had  begun. 

"I've  been  working,"  he  said. 

"All  the  time?"  she  rather  archly  inquired.  Then,  as 
he  frowned,  she  continued,  with  a  quick  glance  at  David, 
who  was  talking  at  a  little  distance  with  Agg,  "I  won- 
dered whether  you  had  moved  quite  far  away;  but  from 
what  David  says  you  must  be  still  in  Islington." 

"Yes,  I'm  still  there." 

"Well,  won't  you  try  to  come  and  see  us  more  often? 
You  know,  don't  you,  that  we  should  really  like  you  to 
come?" 

To  that  there  was  no  answer. 

"I'm  afraid  I  forget,"  she  went  on,  with  that  sort  of 
persistent  disregard  of  pauses  which  all  hostesses  culti- 
vate, "whether  you  live  alone  or  with  your  family.  Which 
is  it?  Please  forgive  me,  and  tell  me;  because  I'm  really 
very  interested,  and  should  like  to  know." 

"I  live  with  my  father  and  a  brother  and  sister  in 
rooms  in  Slapperton  Street,"  said  Stephen  with  a  defiant 
sense  of  discouraging  disclosure. 

"A  sister?  You  have  a  sister?"  asked  Mrs.  Evandine, 
although  she  could  not  help  being  amused  at  his  grave 
pronunciation  of  a  name  so  unusual.  "Wouldn't  you 
like  to  bring  her  to  see  us  one  time?" 

"It's  very  kind  .  .  ."  he  grumbled. 

"I  should  like  it  so  much.  I  expect  the  house  you 
live  in  is  a  very  large  old  house,  isn't  it?  I  can  remem- 
ber .  .  ." 

Her  attempt  to  suggest  that  he  lived  in  a  large  old 
house  in  a  tedious  district  for  any  other  reason  than  the 
real  and  glaring  one  was  too  dexterous.  Somehow  the 
reference  to  Dorothy  and  Roy,  followed  by  this  later 
effort,  made  Stephen's  blood  boil.     He  saw  Mrs.  Evan- 


58  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

(line's  very  gentle,  very  charming  face,  was  acutely  con- 
scious of  her  beautiful  fawn-coloured  dress,  of  her  grace- 
ful coiffure ;  and  of  the  fact  that  she  had  never  in  all  the 
days  of  her  life  for  one  single  moment  felt  the  desperate 
need  of  money,  or  rest,  or  food.  He  thought  of  Dorothy 
at  home,  who  would  have  thought  this  house  and  this 
inexhaustible  garden  a  dream  of  Paradise — keeping 
cheerful  in  her  common  run  of  monotonous  days  by 
God  only  knew  what  subtle  alchemy,  and  never  knowing 
or  having  known  the  unalloyed  pleasure  of  young  life. 
He  thought  of  Roy  at  uncongenial  work  at  an  age  when 
Mrs.  Evandine's  son  had  been  happily  at  a  public  school. 
He  thought  of  himself  as  a  child  and  boy,  often  without 
food,  always  penniless,  tramping  London  ill-clad  and 
with  barely  a  home  to  return  to.  He  thought  of  his  lot 
and  hers,  and  his  heart  burned  at  her  smiling  inquiries 
about  his  sister  and  brother — whom  she  had  never  seen, 
in  whom  as  living  realities  she  could  not  be  interested, 
whose  wretched  childhood  he  knew  with  the  bitter  knowl- 
edge not  only  of  personal  experience,  but  of  anxious 
responsibility.  The  incongruity  between  that  life  as  he 
had  endured  it  and  the  sweet  ease  of  this  kind,  generous, 
sympathetic  woman  was  so  tragically  clear  to  him  that 
he  could  hardly  breathe.  It  was  so  clear  that  he  felt  he 
could  no  longer  bear  to  answer  her  questions.  He  did 
not  do  her  any  injustice.  He  only  saw  that  she  could 
have  no  possible  understanding  of  poverty  as  he  and  his 
sister  and  brother  had  known  and  suffered  it.  That  was 
why  Stephen  brushed  aside  her  questions  with  one  glance 
of  impatience.  His  sullenness  was  gone,  and  with  it  his 
awkward  demeanour.  He  next  spoke  to  her  as  to  an 
equal. 

"Mrs.  Evandine,"  he  said  with  extraordinary  earnest- 
ness, and  an  address  so  candid  as  to  beautify  his  expres- 
sion to  her  eager  eye.  "I'm  not  ashamed  of  being  poor, 
although  it  sometimes  humiliates  me.    But  it  wounds  me 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  59 

very  much  to  feel  that  you  .  .  .  think  it  necessary  to  be 
conversationally  polite  to  me." 

Mrs.  Evandine  flushed  faintly.  His  truthfulness  was 
unexpected  and  quite  undesirable.  But  as  they  were  apart 
from  the  others,  and  as  he  had  spoken  very  quietly  and, 
as  it  seemed  to  her,  very  much  at  the  impulse  of  some 
strong  feeling,  she  did  not  hesitate. 

"You  are  doing  me  an  injustice,"  she  said.  "I  have 
not  once  thought  of  your  being  poor.  If  I  knew  it,  it  was 
with  sympathy — with  admiration  for  you.  I  think  you 
are  quite  misunderstanding  me.  You  hurt  me  very 
much." 

The  disarming  gentleness  of  her  answer  made  Stephen 
realize  as  nothing  else  could  have  done  his  breach  of 
taste,  and  made  him  aghast  at  his  own  clumsiness  in  thus 
wounding  a  nature  so  sensitive  and  so  perfectly  kind ; 
but  although  his  sullenness  was  gone,  he  still  continued 
to  struggle  with  his  awakened  pride  and  with  the  thoughts 
by  which  his  pride  had  been  aroused  and  bruised. 

"And  I'm  being  savagely  rude,"  he  said  in  a  quick 
shame. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are,"  agreed  Mrs.  Evandine  cordially. 
But  Stephen  could  see  that  she  was  smiling,  though  his 
protest  had  hurt  her  so  much  that  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

"I'm  very  sorry.  I'm  so  very  sorry,"  he  began  to 
stammer,  increasingly  and  painfully  repentant.  "I  beg 
your  pardon.  I  hate  to  go  among  people  I  don't  know. 
I  don't  know  how  to  behave.  I  .  .  ."  How  could  he 
be  sufficiently  humble?  Her  pretty,  moved  expression 
made  her  just  like  Priscilla — as  young  and  gentle  and 
appealing.  "As  you  can  see,  I'm  an  egoist,"  he  stumbled 
on.  "Just  a  clumsy  fellow.  And  .  .  .  and  I've  just 
been  made  very  indignant  by  something  that  happened 
on  the  way  here.  I'm  not  in  a  fit  state  to  speak  to  you. 
Do  please  forgive  me." 


60  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"And  you'll  believe  me  in  return?"  she  asked,  really 
triumphant  at  the  discovery  of  his  heart,  but  very  well 
aware  that  her  own  was  uncomfortably  beating. 

"Every  word." 

"Tell  me  what  was  the  thing  that  happened.  .  .  . 
Oh,  there's  Priscilla  at  last." 

Stephen's  heart  stabbed  him  and  began  to  race.  Where, 
then,  was  she?  His  hungry  glance  went  in  search  of 
her.  There,  coming  towards  them  across  the  lawn,  as 
lovely  as  she  had  ever  been,  in  an  exquisite  soft  dress 
of  flowered  muslin,  and  without  a  hat,  was  Priscilla.  She 
was  the  same,  the  same.  Unchanged  still  in  her  incom- 
parable simplicity.  Stephen  could  not  think;  he  could 
only  stand  lonely  among  the  others,  waiting  to  meet  her 
as  if  there  had  never  been  any  interruption  of  their  sweet 
friendship.  Yet  as  Priscilla  came  to  him  and  he  took  her 
hand  she  saw  only  his  stern  face,  and  the  old  bitter  unsat- 
isfied mouth,  and  the  scrupulously  veiled  eyes;  and  her 
own  lips  trembled  at  her  childish  disappointment,  too 
poignant  for  thought.  ...  It  was  all  over  in  a  single 
moment,  and  it  was  nothing.  They  had  met  again,  and 
it  was  nothing — simply  as  though  their  hearts  had  stopped 
beating,  and  as  though  their  eyes  had  become  blind.  Only 
afterwards,  when  the  blood  flowed  back  to  their  hearts, 
they  would  remember,  and  when  their  eyes  were  next 
closed  they  would  see  indelibly  mirrored  each  tiniest 
movement  of  their  meeting,  and  hear  again  the  sounds 
of  the  garden  and  the  trees,  which  formed  its  undersong. 
When  it  was  perhaps  too  late  for  everything  but  inex- 
pressible regret.  .  .  . 

Behind  Priscilla  was  Hilary,  tall,  beautiful,  smiling, 
and  wholly  confident. 

iii 

It  was  at  this  moment  that,  by  a  circuitous  route, 
Romeo   joined  the  company,    stealing  gently   over   the 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  61 

grass  to  Priscilla's  side.  Romeo,  amid,  upon  the  Evan- 
dines'  part,  a  hushed  silence,  advanced  towards  Stephen, 
sniffed  in  a  gingerly  fashion  at  his  trouser  leg  and  his 
dusty  boot,  to  which  Stephen  imagined  that  every  eye 
now  finally  turned,  and  at  last,  with  tail  sweeping  in  the 
air,  rubbed  his  head  against  Stephen's  leg.  Priscilla 
watched  the  event  with  a  tremulous  sigh;  her  mother 
and  brother  with  interested  gravity.  Awkwardly,  notic- 
ing the  silence,  and  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  Stephen 
bent  and  stroked  Romeo's  head.  To  the  Evandines' 
inexpressible  joy  Romeo  pushed  Stephen's  hand  from 
his  head,  and,  steadying  it  with  a  single  alert  paw,  licked 
the  hand  three  times  before  brushing  it  affectionately 
with  his  face.  Stephen,  looking  up,  met  their  awed 
eyes. 

"All  very  satisfactory,  I  think?"  David  inquired 
seriously. 

"Splendid!"  said  both  Priscilla  and  Mrs.  Evandine. 

"What's  the  ceremony?"  asked  Hilary,  standing  close 
to  Priscilla. 

"Romeo  captivated  by  Moore,"  explained  David.  To 
which  Hilary's  rather  blank  face  and  air  of  chagrin 
seemed  to  respond,  "More  than  I  am!"  Hilary  and 
Stephen  were  then  introduced,  and  they  shook  hands. 
If  Hilary  recognized  the  pedestrian  he  gave  no  sign.  Only 
Stephen  knew  and  never  forgave. 


IV 

For  half  an  hour  Stephen  and  David  talked  of  various 
things,  while  Hilary  went  off  to  play  tennis  with  Priscilla 
and  the  Clodds.  They  talked  of  many  books  and  men 
and  pictures,  and  in  their  talk  Stephen  found  his  discom- 
fort vanishing,  and  David  found  his  respect  increased. 
It  was  David's  way  to  listen,  and  to  prompt ;  and  it  was 
Stephen's  way  to  talk  bluntly  and  quickly  when  he  had 


62  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

been  made  to  talk  at  all.  Both  learned,  Stephen  by  test- 
ing his  own  ideas,  David  by  receiving  new  impressions. 
At  last  they  strolled  indoors,  and  up  to  David's  rooms, 
where  Stephen  saw  for  the  first  time  some  prints  of 
pictures  by  the  real  Post-Impressionists,  of  whom  David 
had  heard  at  the  time  when  the  Continent  had  heard  of 
them,  and  long  before  the  first  Grafton  Gallery  exhibition 
in  London.  He  also  saw  one  or  two  original  drawings, 
at  times  painfully  scraped,  but  all  wonderfully  full  of 
colour,  by  Ospovat;  and  a  very  tiny  unfinished  sketch 
in  water-colour  by  Conder.  Other  people,  of  course,  pos- 
sessed and  possess  works  by  these  artists,  and  in  England 
it  is  almost  one  of  the  correct  things  to  have  them;  but 
David  had  these  prints  and  drawings  because  he  really 
liked  them,  and  his  interests  were  very  genuine,  even  if 
they  were  not  wholly  concerned  with  pictorial  art.  He 
also  possessed  many  beautiful,  and  one  or  two  rare,  books 
of  various  kinds,  over  which  Stephen  for  short  intervals 
pored,  patting  them  as  he  spoke,  in  order  to  emphasize 
his  arguments.  Even  when  David  wandered  into  the 
subject  of  music  Stephen  was  interested,  though  his 
actual  acquaintance  with  modern  music  was  small,  and 
his  technical  knowledge  negligible.  So  a  friendship 
began  between  the  two  young  men,  and  as  they  lounged 
in  this  lovely  room,  as  fresh  as  its  own  clear  pale  wall- 
paper and  decorations,  Stephen  entirely  lost  sight  of  his 
boots,  and  his  dusty  anger,  and  all  that  moroseness  that 
had  grown  in  his  nature  out  of  privation  and  the  diffi- 
culties with  which  he  had  ever  to  fight. 

He  developed  into  a  strange  Stephen,  as  young  as  his 
host — or  younger,  because  his  knowledge  was  all  the 
result  of  personal  discovery,  while  David  knew  a  great 
deal  by  education,  by  convention,  and  by  tradition.  The 
Stephen  thus  revealed  was  one  who  was  unknown  to 
everybody,  even  to  himself,  who  was  so  rarely  untram- 
melled as  to  be  never  entirely  care-free.    He  laughed,  his 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  63 

eyes  glowed,  his  manner  grew  ingenuous,  boyish;  and 
David  felt  as  though  there  was  some  of  that  enviable 
quicksilver  in  Stephen  which  so  many  men  to  their  un- 
dying sorrow  lack.  He  was  delighted  at  his  discovery 
of  a  new  personality,  rich  in  interest  for  this  curiously 
detached  youth,  who  made  personality  his  incessant 
study. 

At  last  they  spoke  of  the  article  on  Mr.  Evandine's 
book,  the  reading  of  which  had  been  the  beginning  of 
David's  interest  in  a  young  writer  whose  name  he  had 
once  or  twice  noticed  for  individual  work,  and  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  casually  made  at  a  tea-table  in  a 
strange  restaurant. 

"My  father's  a  very  curious  man.  He  can  see  the 
quality  of  that  criticism.  He'd  be  the  first  to  speak  of 
it.  But  it  discomposes  him.  I  think  he  actually  would 
rather  not  bring  himself  to  relate  it  to  his  own  concep- 
tion of  criticism.  ...  I  suppose  it  simply  is  that  he 
belongs  to  a  dying  school " 

"Educated  men  with  a  taste  for  letters,"  commented 
Stephen. 

"Exactly.    Excellent  taste.  .  .  ." 

"No  analytical  power." 

"Possibly."  David  was  not  surprised  at  these  cryptic 
passing  opinions.  "The  style  has  been  to  say  something 
about  everything  in  a  pleasing  way.  Now  your  work's 
different,  of  course.  I  should  think  criticism  of  that  sort 
is  always  worth  while  for  its  own  sake.  I  mean,  as  a 
thing  done  once  for  all,  and  an  opinion  formed  and 
expressed.  But  does  it  pay?"  David  shot  that  question 
suddenly  at  his  companion.  Stephen  raised  quiet  eyes 
to  meet  his  glance. 

"Well,  no  .  .  ."  he  hesitatingly  acknowledged.    "No." 

"You  can  write  like  that  for  The  Norm,  because  The 
Norm's  a  hobby.     But  not  for  other  papers,  I  suppose?" 

"I  don't  write  for  any  others." 


64  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

David  was  drawn  up  sharply  by  such  an  admission. 
How  on  earth,  then,  did  Stephen  snatch  a  living?  He 
could  not  bluntly  put  the  question,  any  more  than  he 
could  demand  to  know  what  Stephen  did  with  himself 
when  he  was  not  writing  occasional  two-guinea  articles 
for  The  Norm. 

"How  did  you  get  on  to  The  Norm?"  he  asked  instead. 

"Sent  them  some  stuff  and  asked  for  work.  I  didn't 
get  it  for  a  long  time.  Then,  when  I  tried  again  last 
year,  they  sent  me  a  novel  to  review,  and  somebody 
asked  me  to  go  up  and  see  him,  because  I  slated  it  too 
hotly  and  showed  I  knew  nothing  at  all  about  current 
novels.  But  they  took  me  on,  and  I  work  pretty  regu- 
larly for  them,  doing  short  notices,  and  sometimes  a  long 
one  like  that  of  your  father's  book." 

"Isn't  that  rather  stiff  work?"  asked  David  horrified. 
"Why  it  .  .  .  surely  ...  I  mean,  they  don't  pay  very 
much  for  work  of  that  sort." 

"I've  got  to  live.  I  just  manage,  with  other  work — 
not  writing." 

"Do  you  know  Selby  or  Jaggers,  who  do  the  books 
for  the  Morning  News?" 

"No." 

"Know  any  of  these  people?" 

"No." 

"I  dare  say  I  could  introduce  you  to  them." 

"I  can't  write  puffs." 

David  did  not  laugh  at  Stephen's  speech.  It  was  not 
spoken  with  juvenile  contemptuousness,  but  with  a  sort 
of  wistful  admission  of  incapacity. 

"Will  you  let  me  talk  to  Selby?  I  couldn't  be  sure  of 
him." 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't,"  Stephen  said  uncomfortably. 
"I  think  I'd  rather  .  .  ." 

David  did  not  want,  of  course,  to  seem  inquisitive  or 
to  be  interfering.    Yet  here  was  this  man  practically 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  65 

wasting  because  he  lacked  friends  and  because  he  was 
relying  solely  on  virtue  to  carry  the  day. 

''Not  if  you'd  rather  not,"  said  David  quickly.  "You 
don't  much  care  about  prancing  round?  Of  course  it's 
beastly.  I  say,  did  I  show  you  this  little  thing?"  He 
drew  attention  to  a  picture  by  the  window,  representing 
in  line,  very  simply,  the  Annunciation.  "That's  a  thing 
Badoureau — that's  the  fair  man  you  saw  in  the  garden — 
got  me  last  month.  It's  by  a  young  man.  He's  doing 
some  work  for  my  firm  now.  Rather  fresh,  don't  you 
think?" 

Stephen  examined  the  picture.  He  said  he  thought 
it  very  sensitive;  but  David's  last  words  had  stopped  his 
thoughts,  and  when  they  were  again  in  motion  their 
current,  and  in  fact  the  current  of  this  conversation,  had 
entirely  changed. 

"Is  ...  is  Badoureau  an  artist?"  he  asked  quietly. 

David  laughed  a  little,  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
as  he  answered. 

"He'd  tell  you  he  was  a  connoisseur,  I  expect."  After 
a  pause  he  went  on.  "No,  he's  a  man  of  means,  who's 
not  like  us.  He  was  at  Oxford  with  me.  Do  you  like 
him?" 

"No,"  said  Stephen.  "He  nearly  ran  me  over  this 
afternoon,  and  swore  at  me." 

"Really !  The  old  rough !  Well,  I  hope  you  swore 
back." 

"I  did."  But  Stephen  knew  from  David's  tone,  from 
David's  hesitation  over  the  word  "connoisseur,"  every- 
thing that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  learn  about 
Badoureau  and  Badoureau's  wishes.  Well,  was  it  not 
what  he  had  expected?  Had  he  ever  faced  any  other 
conclusion  ?  He  knew  he  had  not.  He  knew  that  he  had 
never  been  in  a  position  to  consider  any  other  end  to  his 
story.  He  had  always  recognized  that  to  marry  Priscilla 
was  something  forbidden  to  him.    But  that  did  not  make 


66  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

the  grinding  pain  any  less,  or  serve  now  to  check  the 
sense  of  jealous  dislike  of  Hilary  which  he  uncontrollably 
felt.  David  saw  the  old  expression  return  to  Stephen's 
face,  and  could  not  fathom  the  cause. 


So  immersed  had  they  been  that  time  had  passed  more 
rapidly  than  either  could  have  imagined.  To  their 
surprise  a  thumping  gong  sounded  racketing  through 
the  house. 

"Good  gracious!     Supper!"  cried  David. 

"Oh,  I  must  go.     I've  been  keeping  you  talking  .  .  ." 

"Nonsense.     Of  course  you'll  stay." 

"No,  no."  Stephen's  thoughts  had  made  him  afraid  of 
meeting  Priscilla  again.  "I  couldn't.  These  clothes  .  .  ." 

"We  never  change  on  Sundays.  You  must  see  my 
father.  Those  decent  mugwumps  you  saw  in  the  garden 
will  all  be  gone.    Besides,  man,  I  want  to  go  on  talking !" 

He  spoke  so  charmingly,  so  naturally,  that  Stephen 
could  not  help  laughing  again;  and  they  ran  into  the 
bathroom,  which  was  on  the  same  landing.  Then 
Stephen,  with  a  breathlessness  out  of  all  keeping  with 
the  seriousness  of  the  subject,  exclaimed : 

"Couldn't  you  give  me  a  brush,  or  duster,  or  some- 
thing, to  take  the  dust  off  these  damned  boots?" 

It  was  the  significant  indication  of  some  new  spirit 
working  in  him.  With  his  boots  clean  he  could  even 
face  Priscilla,  it  seemed!  Really,  what  had  worked  the 
change  was  that  he  hoped  Badoureau  had  gone  with  the 
decencies ;  and  in  the  dreadful  hope  that  he  might  actually 
speak  with  Priscilla  he  revived.  He  could  not  lose  that 
one  last  desperate  joy  of  seeing  her,  of  hearing  her  speak. 
In  his  excitement  Stephen  was  shivering,  as  if  a  cold 
draught  of  excitement  had  cut  across  his  preoccupations 
and  lifted  him  from  despair  into  a  sort  of  mad  exhilarated 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  67 

carelessness.  Nothing  mattered,  so  long  as  he  might  see 
her.  And  then?  He  would  not  think.  It  was  not  fit 
that  he  should  contemplate  before  the  hour  that  creeping 
numbness  of  the  spirit  that  would  steal  upon  him  as  he 
journeyed  homeward.  Then  he  might  know  that  every- 
thing was  gone  except  the  daily  need  of  exertion,  the 
endless  vista  of  days  employed  in  task-work,  and  even- 
ings with  the  old  man,  with  Roy,  and  with  Dorothy. 
Until  then,  in  the  spirit  of  that  ancient  person  who  said, 
"Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry;  for  to-morrow  we  die,"  he 
would  take  with  humble  enjoyment  the  satisfactions  that 
might  fall  to  him. 

He  followed  David  down  the  wide  staircase,  in  a 
dream. 

vi 

When  Stephen  saw  Priscilla  standing  in  the  room  his 
face  turned  white.  His  heart  seemed  to  be  beating  in 
his  throat.  Priscilla  also  was  pale.  She,  too,  had  had 
her  moments  of  inexpressible  pain  since  Hilary  had  gone 
and  she  had  been  alone.  She  silently  listened  to  Stephen 
as  he  responded  to  her  father;  she  was  aware  of  him  all 
the  time  as  he  sat  beside  her  at  the  table.  All  those 
months,  those  empty  months  as  they  now  seemed,  had 
been  obliterated,  and  were  as  though  they  had  never 
been.  Not  Priscilla's  part  now  to  question.  Too  clearly 
she  saw  that  Stephen  had  been  in  her  heart  all  the  time — 
Stephen  and  only  Stephen,  in  all  the  smouldering  passion 
that  this  new  coming  had  started  into  fresh  flame.  For 
Priscilla  the  issue  was  simple;  her  fear  simply  that 
Stephen  did  not  need  her,  did  not  love  her.  Without 
looking  directly  at  him  she  knew  that  his  face  was 
changed.  It  had  hardened.  Why  had  he  not  come? 
Why  had  he  ever  ceased  to  come?  That  was  the  ques- 
tion that  had  hurt  her  all  the  time  during  these  three 
years.     Why,  too,  had  he  changed?    And  what  at  this 


68  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

moment  did  he  feel  ?  Impossible  to  read  that  stern  face  : 
impossible  equally  to  trace  feeling-  in  the  blunt  voice  with 
which  he  answered  her  father.  In  her  mind  the  one  little 
thread  of  wonder  seemed  to  vibrate,  never  stopping, 
always  concerned  only  with  the  cardinal  fact  that  she 
loved  him  and  with  the  one  doubt  of  his  love  for  her. 

To  Mrs.  Evandine,  who  saw  the  picture  before  her  with 
sure  understanding,  there  was  no  question  of  the  love 
upon  either  side.  She  knew  that  if  neither  Priscilla  nor 
Stephen  looked  or  spoke  it  was  because  their  feelings  were 
the  same.  Yet,  confronted  as  she  had  been  that  other 
day  with  a  revelation  that  explained  many  things  which 
had  been  dark,  she  was  still  undecided,  and  still  afraid 
of  some  too  precipitant  action  which  might  result  in 
calamity.  If  love  were  all!  she  thought,  with  her  grave, 
warm,  patient  eyes  bent  upon  Stephen.  If  she  could 
fathom  honesty  it  was  here;  but  so  were  suffering  and 
pride,  and  so  was  one  feature  that  she  dreaded  most  of 
all — an  air  of  endurance,  almost  of  embittered  submis- 
sion. Such  a  man,  Mrs.  Evandine  thought,  might  love, 
and  give;  but  he  might  be  blind,  and  he  might  prove  so 
scrupulous,  so  patient,  and — in  the  feminine  sense — so 
stupid,  as  to  make  marriage  a  steady  failure  in  the  finer 
sympathies.  On  the  merely  economic  side,  which  to 
Stephen  was  the  spectre,  Mrs.  Evandine,  in  her  inex- 
perience of  what  poverty  implied,  was  only  a  little 
dubious.  She  cared  more  that  Priscilla  should  be  happy. 
But  had  Stephen  that  verve,  that  imagination,  that — in 
a  word — that  self-confidence  which  would  allow  him  to 
give  freely  and  inexhaustibly  and  to  evoke  in  Priscilla 
those  rarer  and  deeper  traits  which  at  present  wrere  only 
partially  developed?  For  answers  to  her  doubts  Mrs. 
Evandine  wanted  time.  She  had  seen  nothing  three  years 
before,  until  Stephen  had  stopped  coming.  She  had  heard 
from  Priscilla  nothing  but  the  story  of  a  trifling  dis- 
agreement— of  an  argument  which  had  arisen  between  the 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  69 

two,  of  Stephen's  cynical  attitude,  of  the  eager  cham- 
pionship of  a  friend  by  Priscilla,  and  of  their  momentary 
estrangement.  Apart  from  that,  nothing.  Priscilla  had 
been  very  young,  and  the  matter  had  seemed  to  her  of 
little  moment.  She  did  not  know  even  that  Priscilla  had 
written  at  the  time  a  letter  to  Stephen,  until  she  had  seen 
Stephen's  reply,  which  she  had  been  discreet  enough  not 
to  read  and  not  to  mention,  and  of  whose  contents  she 
therefore  remained  ignorant. 

These  were  Mrs.  Evandine's  thoughts  as  she  saw  the 
lovers  and  left  the  present  to  the  good  judgment  of  both. 
In  the  meantime  she  still  preoccupied  herself  with  the 
future  and  hesitated  to  decide  even  in  her  own  mind  the 
points  upon  which  the  happiness  of  her  daughter's  whole 
life  depended.  Suddenly  her  eyes  softened  as  she  saw 
Priscilla  and  Stephen  look  directly  at  one  another. 


vi  1 

An  hour  later,  when  they  walked  in  the  garden  in  the 
slow  mild  moonlight  which  flooded  the  lawn  with  white 
and  threw  strange  steel-blue  shadows  everywhere,  it 
seemed  inevitable  that  the  two  should  walk  together. 
While  David  went  on  before  them,  his  arm  linked  in 
his  mother's  arm,  Priscilla  and  Stephen  lingered,  as  silent 
as  the  night,  listening  only  to  the  hushing  breeze  and  the 
faint  echo  of  London  traffic  far  to  the  south,  afraid  to 
speak  in  case  the  spell  of  their  secret  passion  should  be 
broken.  From  the  great  lawn  before  the  house  they 
crossed  the  tennis-lawn,  and  wandered  down  a  flagged 
path  under  budding  rambler  roses  into  a  small  Dutch 
garden  that  seemed  to  them  in  its  conventional  beauty 
a  world  apart  from  the  rest  of  life.  It  was  only  then, 
when  they  were  quite  alone,  that  Priscilla,  with  heart 
that  was  like  to  break  at  the  evening's  beauty  and  her 
own  exalted  mood,  said,  "Stephen  .  .  .  you  never  came. 


70  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Why  did  you  never  come?"  She  was  like  a  child  that 
had  been  left  lonely,  wistfully  asking  for  comfort. 

The  hour  had  struck.  He  might  have  meant  in  all 
honour  to  go  silently  away,  and  to  devote  himself  to 
forgetting  that  Badoureau  loved  Priscilla,  and  that  his 
own  duties  and  commitments  were  such  as  to  tie  him  to 
celibacy.  But  when  Priscilla,  putting  aside  all  those 
things  which  she  might  have  said  to  indicate  a  simple 
kindness,  deliberately  spoke  to  him  as  to  one  from  whom 
she  expected  to  hear  the  truth,  he  could  do  nothing  but 
answer  her  question.  But  it  was  with  fear  that  he  made 
the  admission. 

"I  was  afraid  to  come." 

Priscilla  shuddered  very  slightly. 

"If  you  had  come.  .  .  .  Were  you  afraid  that  I  was 
too  stupid  to  be  ashamed  afterwards?" 

"I  was  afraid  to  come  because  I  found  how  much  I 
loved  you,  Priscilla." 

If  Priscilla's  voice  had  trembled,  Stephen's  sounded 
dry  with  a  sort  of  parched  huskiness.  But  the  words 
were  spoken;  both  now  knew  the  truth.  Their  unhap- 
piness,  if  that  had  been  unhappiness  which  perhaps  was 
only  suspense,  was  lightened.  For  a  moment  they  did 
not  speak,  but,  trembling,  continued  to  walk  by  the 
sharply  cut  and  strangely  carven  bushes  of  the  garden. 
Then,  with  a  resolve  fully  formed,  Stephen  began  to 
speak,  very  quickly,  and  with  an  absolute  trust  that  made 
Priscilla's  heart  swell. 

"If  I  had  come,  and  if  I  had  said  that  the  thing  that 
made  me  angry  was  simply  that  I  was  in  love  with  you. 
...  It  could  never  have  been  honest.  It  isn't  honest 
of  me  to  say  this  now;  but  I  must  speak  to  you.  ...  I 
couldn't  be  silent.  You  know  I'm  not  alone.  I  have 
others  to  think  of — I  had  you  as  well.  I  mean  that  I  am 
very  poor,  never  likely  to  have  any  sort  of — liberty  even. 
You  see,  I  love  you.     I  couldn't  keep  away  when  this 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  71 

opportunity  .  .  .  But  if  I  may  tell  you  that  I  love 
you." 

"Oh,  but  to  have  waited  three  years — "  she  began,  in 
a  quivering  tone.     "To  leave  me  unknowing." 

"Priscilla!" 

Stephen  had  taken  her  hand,  and  raised  it  so  that  her 
arm  lay  in  his,  and  their  hands  together,  pressed  very 
firmly,  as  if  he  would  convey  to  her  thus  the  contrition 
and  half-bewildered  exultancy  that  his  tone  might  already 
have  confessed.  So,  for  a  little,  they  walked;  until 
Priscilla  slowly  withdrew  her  fingers  from  his,  not  un- 
kindly but  with  a  nervous  impulse  to  be  free. 

"I  loved  you  too,  Stephen.  I  do  love  you  now.  .  .  . 
I  can't  bear  you  to  be  so  humble.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  my  dearest !"  he  cried  in  a  broken  voice,  appalled 
at  the  swift  imagining  of  what  that  knowledge  might  have 
meant  to  them  both.  "When  I've  tried  so  hard — worked 
so  bitterly.  I  couldn't  think  it.  How  could  I  think  it? 
When  I'm  so  base,  so  spoiled.  And  when  everything 
went  against  me  I  couldn't  tell  you.  To  come  to  you  so 
broken,  so  hopeless.     How  could  I  have  done  it?" 

"But  what  does  it  matter,  Stephen?  If  you're  poor 
and  .  .  .  Couldn't  you  have  let  me  help  you?"  Her 
voice  failed.  Wearily  she  interrupted  herself.  "Oh, 
no:  I'm  only  being  stupid." 

Eagerly  he  tried  to  bridge  the  discrepancy  in  their 
knowledge. 

"Priscilla,  you  simply  could  not  understand — your 
mother  doesn't  understand — how  poor  we  are  .  .  .  have 
always  been.  You  think  poverty  is  something  uncomfort- 
able— a  trouble — an  inconvenience.  You  don't  know 
what  it  is  not  to  have  enough  food.  You  couldn't 
know  what  poverty  really  means.  The  thought  of  your 
suffering  what  I've  suffered  all  my  life — even  in  these 
last  years — is  impossible.  If  I'd  been  really  ...  if  my 
love  were  unselfish  I  could  never  have  come  to-day.     It 


72  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

was  a  weakness,  a  sort  of  hideous  temptation.  I  came 
only  to  see  you — once.     Then,  never  to  come  again." 

"To  leave  me?"     She  couldn't  understand. 

Stephen  turned  away  in  despair,  flinging  out  his  hands ; 
but  he  again  began  to  speak  in  the  same  agitated  dry 
voice  that  she  had  heard  throughout. 

"Do  I  seem  cowardly?"  he  asked.  "I  don't  want  to 
be  that.  But  if  you  could  realize  the  contrast  between 
your  life  and  mine,  you  would  understand  how  hateful 
I  seem  to  myself  even  in  telling  you  that  I  love  you.  I 
had  no  idea  of  doing  it.  I've  thought  of  you  as  forget- 
ting me,  as  marrying — God  forgive  me,  I've  thought  you 
might  even  be  married.  .  .  .  And  I've  tried  to  be  glad 
of  it,  glad  to  think  that  the  danger  was  over." 

"The  danger?"  she  quickly  interposed.  "You  must 
explain  to  me." 

"The  temptation.  Not  the  temptation,  not  the  love; 
but  the  dreadful  stealthy  hope  that  always  keeps  mad- 
dening me,  and  slowly  .  .  .  I've  tried  to  crush  it.  It  is 
an  agony.  .  .  ." 

"But  why,"  Priscilla  asked  in  a  bewildered  voice;  "but 
why  should  you  try  to  crush  it?  Love's  not  a  wicked 
thing,  is  it,  Stephen?"  Then,  very  low,  she  added:  "If 
it  is,  how  wicked  I  must  be." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  Priscilla  gave  a  quick  choking  sob 
and  was  in  his  arms,  her  face  cold  against  his  cheek,  her 
lips  like  sudden  stone  against  his  own.  For  that  moment 
there  was  nothing  else — only  the  blind  turning  to  each 
other,  denying  the  validity  of  any  words  or  thoughts  or 
reasons,  of  two  mortals  helplessly  enmeshed  in  the  moon's 
light  and  the  moon's  bright  madness.  Whatever  might 
follow,  for  that  instant  no  other  action  had  been  possible. 
It  was  not  even  a  source  of  happiness,  but  of  consolation 
alone.  As  their  cheeks  lay  together,  and  her  soft  hair 
touched  his  face  like  the  fulfilling  of  a  sweetest  dream, 
it  was  Stephen  who  was  the  more  unhappy;  because  to 


STEPS  TOWARDS  LIGHT  73 

him  the  future  was  dark  with  admitted  duties.  He  alone 
saw  that  he  could  not  forsake  Dorothy,  and  Roy,  and 
that  nothing  upon  earth  could  clear  him  of  the  strangling 
weeds  of  his  father's  manner  of  life.  He  might  verbally 
repudiate;  but  inexorable  fact  would  presently  destroy 
him.  And  in  this  confession  of  her  love,  sweet  though  it 
was,  exquisite  to  him  in  its  desperate  sense  of  wonder, 
Stephen  read  only  a  deserted  trust,  an  injury  to  his  love, 
who  so  loved  him  that  she  would  not  admit  his  cowardice. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  coward?"  he  whispered.  "My 
dearest,  I  love  you,  I  love  you." 

Slowly  Priscilla  drew  her  face  back,  and  their  eyes  met, 
dark  and  strange  in  the  faint  light. 

"You're  not  a  coward.  I  trust  you,"  she  said.  For 
a  moment  they  stood  embraced,  until  remembrance  came 
to  both.  "And  we  must  go  on  walking  in  the  garden," 
Priscilla  continued,  "though  I  hate  to  say  it ;  because  the 
others  will  be  coming  to  look  for  us.  But  you  must  tell 
me  presently  what  we  are  to  do.  I'll  do  what  you  tell 
me  to  do.  I  love  you  enough  to  do  that.  And  you  must 
be  very  brave.  And  bold.  You'll  be  that,  won't  you, 
Stephen?  Because  you  know  I've  been  awfully  unhappy 
and  afraid  you  would  never  come.  And  now  I  wholly 
trust  you." 

Her  voice  brought  tears  to  his  eyes;  her  confidence 
steeled  him. 

"I've  been  a  coward,  and  I  shall  always  be  a  coward, 
dear;  and  .  .  ."  He  could  not  proceed.  Instead,  he 
kissed  her  cheek,  and  slowly  Priscilla  moved  her  head 
so  that  their  lips  might  meet  a  second  time.  "You'll  make 
me  brave,"  he  whispered.  "Perhaps  you'll  make  me 
brave." 

But  to  be  brave  was  now  in  his  mind  something  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  had  been.  To  be  brave  had  been 
until  now  to  endure,  to  bear  whatever  pain  life  might 
send,  whatever  sacrifice  of  self  the  exigencies  of  his  care 


74  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

for  others  might  demand.  In  its  newer  reading  to  be 
brave  meant  to  carry  the  difficulties  of  the  world  by 
assault;  it  meant  not  an  accommodation,  but  a  definite 
victory  against  odds.  Was  he  strong  enough?  Could 
he  do  it? 

"You  are  already  brave,"  said  Priscilla.  "Oh,  Stephen 
.  .  .  you're  already  brave." 

They  presently  came  in  sight  of  Mrs.  Evandine  and 
David,  who  were  with  great  care  examining  an  evening 
plant  of  luxurious  scent.  Neither  Mrs.  Evandine  nor 
David  made  any  sign  that  they  had  been  waiting  for  their 
companions;  but  Mrs.  Evandine  knew  from  Priscilla's 
voice  that  there  had  been  an  explanation  between  the 
lovers,  and  she  could  not  help  trembling  a  little  with 
excitement  and  sudden  dread. 


CHAPTER  IV:   CONSIDERATIONS 


THE  next  day  dawned  as  fair  as  its  immediate  prede- 
cessors, and  the  house  at  Totteridge  squarely  met 
the  sun  upon  its  brown,  weather-stained  side.  A  great 
triangle  of  the  lawn  was  sliced  into  a  soft,  warm  morning 
shade.  A  gardener  was  working  within  sight  of  the 
house;  and  Romeo  was  cleaning  himself  in  the  sun,  with 
his  large  ears  working  hither  and  thither  as  if  they  were 
the  ears  which  a  horse  so  comically  pricks  and  moves 
to  every  noticeable  sound.  Birds  sang  in  the  trees  or 
hopped  and  fluttered  impudently  near  Romeo,  who  some- 
times left  off  cleaning  himself,  with  a  leg  still  extended, 
in  order  to  utter  a  quivering  noiseless  miaw  of  desire  at 
the  shamele'ss  intruders.  Within  the  house,  work  pro- 
ceeded with  a  swift  bustle,  and  the  cheerful  voices  of  the 
servants  rose  occasionally  from  the  kitchen  or  the  bed- 
rooms. Mr.  Evandine  gently  ambled  about  the  garden, 
speaking  to  himself  from  time  to  time  in  his  dry  little 
voice,  which  had  the  air  of  being  ejected  from  his  person 
through  a  very  small  and  slightly  imperfect  opening  in 
his  head.  He  would  say  "Yiss"  and  "Rilly"  (for  "yes" 
and  "really"),  and  his  pronunciation  of  "oh"  was  as  if 
he  should  say  "er"  and  "oo" ;  only  in  giving  such  a  rough 
transcript  one  omits  to  indicate  all  the  other  subtle  vowel 
sounds  which  may  appear  in  so  simple  an  exclamation. 
There  was  something  a  little  pinched  and  fastidious  about 
his  whole  manner  of  speech;  but  not  about  his  bearing, 
which  was  entirely  pleasant  and  unruffled.  He  was  un- 
usually ignorant  of  flowers,  and  his  acquaintance  with  the 
contents  of  his  own  flower  garden  was  so  slight  as  to 

75 


70  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

bring  horror  into  the  hearts  of  his  two  gardeners.  He 
would  awaken  one  day  to  the  presence  of  some  new  flower 
in  one  of  the  beds.  "Er,  whawt's  this,  Minch  ?"  he  would 
say;  and  Minch  would  patiently  answer,  "That's  sweet- 
William,  sir,"  or  "Lupin,  sir,"  or  even  "Snapdragon,  sir 
— hantirrhinum" ;  to  which  Mr.  Evandine  would  pleas- 
antly respond  "Rilly!"  and  forget  all  about  the  matter 
with  a  smiling  vacancy  that  made  the  gardener  think  him 
a  most  absent-minded  gentleman.  But  all  the  same  Mr. 
Evandine  was  not  entirely  absent-minded;  and  it  may 
have  occurred  to  Romeo  that  his  master  was  really  rather 
shy  and  still  did  not  know  quite  how  to  converse  with 
his  staff. 

As  Mr.  Evandine  wandered  about  the  garden — think- 
ing, possibly,  of  Mr.  Vanamure's  love  of  fine  literature 
— his  wife  was  talking  with  her  housekeeper,  and  settling 
the  day's  menu.  His  daughter,  with  a  pair  of  gardening 
gloves  upon  her  slender  hands,  was  upon  the  point  of 
joining  him  and  proceeding  to  her  own  garden.  His 
son,  of  course,  was  already  at  the  office,  opening  his 
letters  and  very  rapidly  answering  them  with  the  aid 
of  an  expert  stenographer  who  could  have  typed  his 
answers  in  three  different  languages  if  she  had  been 
equally  expert  at  reading  her  shorthand  notes.  The 
entire  Evandine  family  was  lightly  engaged,  happy  in 
gentle  activities.  .  .  .  And  the  warm  sun  slowly  grew 
warmer,  and  the  deep  blue  sky  seemed  to  grow  deeper, 
and  the  glimpses  of  it  through  the  sweet  green  leaves  of 
all  the  surrounding  trees  became  more  ravishing,  and 
the  flowers  proudly  lifted  their  heads  to  the  sun,  and  the 
murmur  and  subdued  chanting  rustle  of  garden  life 
seemed  to  make  the  air  quiver  with  the  warmth  and 
whisper  and  occupation  of  a  summer  morning,  as  though 
every  activity  was  but  one  activity,  an  unceasing  process 
in  the  spinning  of  that  eternal  web  of  significant  life.  It 
was   another   of   those   lovely   days   when   voices   seem 


CONSIDERATIONS  77 

sweetly  to  echo  in  the  clear  air,  when  the  sound  of  a 
spade  striking  a  stone  becomes  a  mellow  chink  exquisite 
to  the  ear,  when  the  birds  are  happy  but  less  boisterous 
than  they  are  in  the  spring,  and  when,  indeed,  every  sound 
ripples  gently  into  the  general  harmony  and  makes  human 
beings  feel  that  happiness  is  the  normal  note  of  every 
kind  of  life. 

Mr.  Evandine  was  very  well  aware  of  the  soothing 
effect  of  the  garden  upon  his  own  nerves.  He  always 
recommended  a  short  dawdle  among  the  flowers  and  fruit 
and  vegetables  as  a  cure  for  any  slight  ailment.  And  in 
his  own  case  an  apple  a  day  (which  is  rhymingly  supposed 
to  keep  the  doctor  away)  was  only  part  of  the  regimen 
by  which  he  cultivated  perfect  health,  charity,  and  ease  of 
spirit.  He  chafed  at  nothing.  He  had  of  course  nothing 
to  make  him  chafe;  for  his  physical  comfort  was  great, 
his  taste  and  ambition  were  alike  realized,  his  wife  was 
perfect,  his  children  quite  delightful  friends  even  for  their 
parents,  and  his  circle  of  attractive  acquaintances  large 
and  pleasant.  Mr.  Evandine  had  nothing  in  life  to  wish 
for.    He  was  a  happy  man. 


u 

Nothing  had  so  far  arisen  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  of 
his  home.  Its  occupants  were  not  selfish  people,  or  vulgar 
people,  or  restless  or  stifling  or  moribund.  Having  real- 
ized their  function  in  life,  which  was  to  enjoy  the  treasure 
to  which  they  had  equably  been  born,  they  had  the 
candour  and  the  intelligence  to  exert  themselves  accord- 
ingly. Freedom  from  earthly  anxieties,  so  far  from 
making  them  stupid,  left  the  Evandines  free  to  see  things 
more  clearly  than  many  people  are  able  to  do.  Mr. 
Evandine  saw  things  least  clearly,  because  he  had  his 
books  to  think  about  all  day;  and  the  man  who  thinks 
about  books  all  day,  for  any  other  reason  than  that  he 


78  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

is  employed  to  do  it,  is  wantonly  missing  much  of  what 
goes  on  around  him.  But  Mr.  Evandine  was  not 
destroyed,  for  he  was  not  a  bookworm,  and  was  easily 
discovered  by  bookworms  to  be  a  man  of  facile  attain- 
ments. He  would  write  a  delicious  essay,  upon  which 
he  would  spend  perhaps  a  refined  and  delicate  month  of 
loving  care,  and  would  ravish  the  taste  of  the  epicures. 
He  would  write  about  very  "little"  subjects  (his  lovers 
spoke  about  his  exquisite  "littleness"),  such  as  his  sen- 
sations in  recalling  early  sports  with  magic-lantern  slides, 
or  his  first  reading  of  Paradise  Lost;  and  he  also  wrote 
charming  essays  upon  Don  Quixote  and  Mrs.  Behn  and 
The  Gall's  Hornbook  and  Mrs.  Leicester's  School,  in 
which  essays  he  would  with  great  appositeness  quote  the 
really  good  and  amusing  things  from  Peter  Pan  and  Alice 
in  Wonderland.  But  then  he  had  another  species  of  com- 
position. He  wrote  long,  and  very  finished,  biographical 
studies  of  men  who  have  not  yet  been  overworked  as 
subjects  for  literary  disquisition.  Besides  five  or  six 
volumes  of  essays  and  belles-lettres  he  had  produced 
books  on  Dr.  Burney,  Crabb  Robinson,  Thomas  Dekker, 
and  Leigh  Hunt.  The  catholic  taste,  the  fastidious  exe- 
cution, the  smiling  judgment  of  Mr.  Evandine  were  all 
well  known.  The  books  were  somehow  there  :  they  could 
not  be  escaped :  in  the  London  Library  catalogue  one  saw 
"Robinson,  Henry  Crabb  .  .  .  see  Evandine,  Cedric 
[Stalcett],  H.  C.  R. :  a  Biographical  Study,"  for 
example,  as  the  only  book.  Mr.  Evandine  almost  in- 
variably wrote  the  only  book.  Yet  there  was  nothing 
threadbare,  nothing  in  the  least  mean  or  calculated  about 
these  books.  Mr.  Evandine,  in  his  reading,  was  struck 
by  the  fact  that  such  a  man  had  not  been  dealt  with. 
What  more  natural  than  that  he  should  himself  essay 
to  fill  the  void  ?  Thus  it  was  that  he  was  always  grace- 
fully doing  the  unexpected  thing  in  the  expected  way: 
if  the  "way"  had  been  unexpected  as  well  as  the  subject 


CONSIDERATIONS  79 

he  would  have  been  less  popular.  If  he  had  been  always 
doing  something  different  differently  a  feeling  of  uncer- 
tainty would  have  arisen.  He  would  have  seemed  one 
of  those  brilliant  fluttering  men  through  whose  work  runs 
no  safe  note  to  which  critics  can  honourably  turn  for 
comment.  Instead,  these  books  bore  always  the  stamp 
of  his  easy,  kind,  good  breeding;  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
read  them  and  to  praise  them.  Mr.  Evandine  never  grew 
more  profound;  but  he  was  always  polished  and  enter- 
taining, and  for  those  qualities,  in  spite  of  such  fierce 
critics  as  Stephen  Moore,  we  shall  contrive  to  be  gently 
grateful  as  long  as  literature  is  our  mistress  and  not  our 
ardent  wayward  friend. 

iii 

Mr.  Evandine  saw  Priscilla  the  moment  she  left  the 
house.  So  did  Romeo,  who  dropped  all  feet  to  the  ground 
and  sailed  towards  her  with  his  tail  flourishing  in  the 
air.  Priscilla  wore  a  large  blue  pinafore,  and  a  shady 
hat,  and  she  carried  a  basket  in  which  she  intended  to 
put  any  faded  flowers  or  obstreperous  grass-blades  that 
she  might  find  in  that  particular  garden  whose  welfare 
she  tended.  As  she  came  towards  him  Mr.  Evandine 
smiled  unconsciously,  as  most  people  would  have  done, 
from  a  feeling  of  pleasure. 

"Priscilla,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  she  was  within  hearing, 
"I've  been  looking  for  five  minutes  at  this  flower;  and 
Minch  kindly  told  me  the  name  of  it;  but  the  name  seems 
to  have  gone  out  of  my  mind  again.  I  particularly  want 
to  remember  it  because  it  is  a  colour  one  can  refer  to." 

"Well,  father,"  Priscilla  said,  frankly.  "I  should 
say  it  was  a  violet  viola;  but  I'm  not  sure  that  you'd 
call  it  violet." 

"Violet,  of  course!"  cried  Mr.  Evandine,  suavely  cov- 
ering his  chagrin.  "That  delicate  colour.  It's  not  quite 
a  violet  .  .  .  eh,  eh  ?" 


80  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"Of  course  there  are  different  shades :  all  those  secon- 
dary colours  are  very  elastic,  aren't  they  .  .  .?" 

"Yiss,  yiss,"  hastily  said  Mr.  Evandine.  "Minch  was 
telling  me " 


"He's  not  altogether  reliable,  father.  Sometimes  he's 
carried  away.     His  enthusiasm " 

"Minch,  my  dear,  is  one  of  those  men  with  simple 
natures  who  retain  the  child's  love  of  untruth.  He 
actually  doesn't  realize  that  he's  lying." 

"So  long  as  you're  not  taken  in !"  laughed  Priscilla. 
"I'm  afraid  you  sometimes  are,  you  know.  I  don't  want 
to  make  you  distrust  him." 

Mr.  Evandine  frowned  idly  at  her  irreverence. 

"You  seem  especially  cheerful  this  morning,  my  dear," 
he  ventured. 

Priscilla's  face  instantly  grew  grave. 

"Do  I,  father?"  she  asked,  soberly. 

"But  you  look  ...  a  little  white."  He  scrutinized 
her  sharply,  as  he  sometimes  was  able  to  do  when  his 
thoughts  were  not  otherwise  engaged.  "Don't  tire  your- 
self in  your  garden." 

"As  if  a  little  weeding  would  hurt!"  she  indignantly 
said.     "Come  along,  Romie." 

Romeo  followed,  stopping  to  throw  a  passing  lick  at 
the  middle  of  his  back,  where  he  sometimes  had  a  slight 
irritation  which  was  known  to  the  Evandines  as  "young 
Harry"  because  it  seemed  such  a  persistent  annoyance  in 
Romeo's  otherwise  enjoyable  life.  The  name  had  arisen 
because  David,  observing  Romeo's  gesture  of  impatience, 
had  said,  "He  hath  a  devil  .  .  .  but  only  a  little  one." 

But  when  Priscilla,  thus  as  it  were  discarding  her 
father,  reached  the  little  garden  she  fell  dull  and  silent. 
When  Romeo  began  once  more  to  clean  himself  she  stood 
half -leaning  upon  a  spade,  and  could  not  help  sighing. 
The  short  night  was  over,  the  night  so  much  of  which 
she  had  spent  with  quickening  colour  and  shining  eyes 


CONSIDERATIONS  81 

recalling  every  moment  of  Stephen's  presence;  and  a 
reaction  of  doubt  had  set  in.  She  could  hardly  believe 
that  their  talk  had  been  real.  It  seemed  to  her  more  like 
a  dream.  She  had  the  same  feeling  that  dreams  give, 
that  one  has  somehow  said  things  one  couldn't  in  waking 
moments  have  said,  and  yet  that  the  things  said  have  been 
in  some  way  inexpressible — that  the  words  have  been 
framed,  but  no  more.  There  was  so  much  that  had  been 
left  to  the  future ;  so  much  that  had  still  to  be  made  clear. 
Did  Stephen  understand?  At  the  thought  of  Stephen 
the  colour  again  crept  into  her  cheeks,  and  the  light  into 
her  eyes.  With  another  sigh  she  put  her  spade  down 
and  bent  to  take  up  a  swaying  weed  that  had  sprung  up 
beside  her  handsomest  rose — the  rose  from  which  three 
years  before  Stephen  had  gathered  a  bunch  of  blooms 
for  her  waist  .  .  .  and  the  blooms  of  which  she  had 
thrown  down  in  her  later  passionate  anger.  She  could 
never  forgive  herself  that. 

And  Stephen  had  been  right  in  their  quarrel. 

Every  word  that  he  had  then  used  had  been  proved 
true.  Ivy,  the  friend  against  whom  he  had  warned  her, 
had  quickly  illustrated  the  truth  of  Stephen's  reproach. 
Priscilla  shivered  as  she  remembered.  And  he  had  stayed 
away — not  because  of  their  quarrel,  but  because  he  had 
too  surely  seen  that  his  own  unusual  heat  had  arisen  from 
a  more  powerful  emotion.  If  he  had  continued  to  stay 
away?  She  had  supposed  that  hearts  broke;  but  hers 
had  not  broken.  Nobody  had  seen  that  she  was  in  love. 
Even  her  mother  had  not  seen.  She  had  not  cried  or 
moaned  or  shrunk  from  others.  She  had  continued  to 
behave  as  she  had  always  done.  But  that,  perhaps,  was 
not  from  any  conscious  impulse.  It  must  surely  have 
been  because  she  had  not  understood.  "I  shouldn't  think 
that  real  love  ever  did  altogether  die,"  thought  Priscilla. 
"I  should  think  it  dies  down  and  stays,  and  sometimes 
gets    diverted    into    other    things.     But    it    couldn't    be 


82  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

wasted."  She  was  trying  to  think  that  she  had  learned 
a  great  deal  from  a  love  that  had  nourished  her  nature — 
trying  to  think  that  she  was  wiser  than  she  would  other- 
wise have  been.  Unconsciously  she  was  holding  the  weed 
which  she  had  plucked,  and  was  looking  at  it  with  a  half- 
reluctant  smile,  her  fair  hair  and  the  big  garden  hat  pro- 
tecting her  face  from  the  sun  and  deepening  her  grave 
expression  in  the  faint  shadow. 

So  Priscilla  stood  when  Mrs.  Evandine  came  along  the 
path. 

iv 

"Has  father  remembered  the  colour  of  the  viola?" 
asked  Priscilla  of  her  mother. 

"He  was  more  concerned  with  your  colour,"  said  Mrs. 
Evandine.     "It  isn't  very  rosy." 

"I  slept  badly."  Priscilla  quite  frankly  admitted  the 
implication. 

"But  you're  quite  happy?" 

"Yes.  Quite  happy.  But  I  want  to  ask  you  about 
some  things,  mother."  She  saw  her  mother  look  anxious. 
In  her  sensitive  mood  it  chilled  her.  "Not  now,  but  later," 
she  hurriedly  concluded. 

"What  things,  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Evandine  gently 
aware  of  Priscilla's  tiniest  recoil  and  bent  upon  showing 
only  her  love  and  sympathy.  For  a  moment  Priscilla 
did  not  reply.  The  colour  came  into  her  face  and  she 
breathed  quickly,  as  though  her  heart  was  painfully 
beating. 

"Mother,"  she  said  impulsively,  "why  is  Stephen  so 
very  poor?" 

The  blow  had  certainly  come:  it  was  Mrs.  Evandine's 
part  now  to  colour  faintly. 

"I  suppose  because  he  has  to  support  his  family,  dear. 
I  wish  I  knew  more." 

"You  know  we  speak  of  the  Clodds  as  poor.    They  say, 


CONSIDERATIONS  83 

'Of  course  we're  very  poor :  we  shan't  be  able  to  go 
abroad  this  year.'  But  Stephen's  poverty  is  not  like 
that.     It's  something  far  more,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  dear.     It's  not  like  that,"  agreed  her  mother. 

"He  said  he  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  my  .  .  .  He 
spoke  of  'starving,'  mother.  Isn't  that,  with  him,  rather 
ridiculous?  It  isn't  as  though  he  were  stupid.  I  wish 
I  knew  how  little  one  could  live  on?" 

"You've  had  such  an  easy  life,  Priscilla.  And  so,  I'm 
afraid,  have  I.  I  don't  think  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Evandine 
checked  herself.     "Stephen  will  tell  us." 

Priscilla  looked  gratefully  at  her  mother  for  that  con- 
fidence. 

"I'm  so  afraid  he  won't  let  me  marry  him,"  she  said. 
Then :  "I'm  so  afraid  he  finds  it  easier  to — to  repress 
himself.  He'd  rather  suffer  in  silence.  Mother,  it's 
horrible ;  but  I  could  only  influence  him  by  being  selfish, 
and  saying  how  much  I  should  suffer." 

Mrs.  Evandine  was  not  shocked;  but  Priscilla's  very 
quiet  little  voice  hurt  her. 

"And  you  said  that?"  she  asked,  in  a  curious  silence. 

"I  had  suffered.  And  I'm  ready  to  suffer.  But  .  .  . 
it's  not  right  to  suffer  if  you  can  help  it,  do  you  think, 
mother?  Stephen  hasn't  told  me  anything.  I'm  only 
wondering  and  wondering.  But  if  he  loves  me,  as  I  know 
he  does;  and  if  I  love  him,  as  I  know  I  do  .  .  .  can 
anything  prevent  our  being  married?  He  speaks  as 
though  I  were  afraid  of  work,  when  I'd  so  proudly  work 
for  him — as  though  I  should  in  some  way  be  degraded." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Evandine,  just  a  little  horrified, 
"I  think  it  would  be  more  of  a  strain  than  you  imagine. 
And,  dear,"  she  went  on,  very  swiftly,  "Stephen  isn't 
a  man  who  would  let  us  help  him.  You  see  that.  I  don't 
want  to  seem  to  make  objections — I  only  want  you  to  be 
happy,  and  Stephen  to  be  happy.  But  if  Stephen  wants 
to  marry  you  he'll  manage  to  do  so,  and  I  think  we'd 


84  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

better  let  him  explain  to  us  what  his  situation  is.  There 
is  his  father  to  think  of,  and  the  younger  ones " 

"I  wish  I  could  know  Dorothy,"  broke  in  Priscilla. 

"Is  that  his  sister?  I  asked  him  to  bring  her  to 
see  us." 

"Do  you  think  I  did  wrong,  mother?" 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  you  did,  dear.  No,  I  don't 
think  you  did  wrong.    I  like  Stephen,  and  admire  him." 

"But  you're  afraid,  in  some  way." 

Mrs.  Evandine  looked  distressed.  Her  face,  as  pretty 
and  as  flushed  almost  as  her  daughter's,  grew  a  little 
pinker,  and  she  stood  as  if  confused.  It  was  impossible 
for  Priscilla  to  bear  such  distress,  and  she  put  her  arm 
round  her  mother's  shoulders. 

"As  if  I  were  a  child,"  Mrs.  Evandine  protested.  "Let 
me  just  tell  you.  I  am  afraid;  but  it  is  only  because  you 
are  my  little  girl.  I  didn't  dream  of  this  till  the  other 
night ;  and  now  I  can't  be  sure  whether  I'm  glad  or  sorry. 
It's  a  tremendous  risk.  I  think  there  are  some  reasons 
against  it;  but  there  generally  are  some  reasons." 

"The  reason  for  it  is  that  we  love  each  other,"  Priscilla 
urgently  said. 

"That's  the  best  reason  of  all,"  her  mother  admitted. 
"Well,  we'll  see  what  Stephen  says.  I  quite  agree  with 
you,  dear,  in  relying  on  him.  But  you  see,  it's  the  first 
time  the  question  has  arisen.  There  hasn't,  I  mean,  ever 
been  anybody  else." 

"No,"  said  Priscilla,  with  quite  another  meaning; 
"there  has  never  been  anybody  else." 

"We  won't  say  any  more  now." 

"No,  mother.  Though  I  wish  you  were  altogether  on 
my  side." 

Mrs.  Evandine  could  not  help  laughing,  and  kissing 
her  daughter  with  a  little  fierceness  of  motherly  affection. 

"It's  rather  funny  to  think,  isn't  it,  that  the  other  side 
is  Stephen !"  she  murmured  with  the  faintest  touch  of 


CONSIDERATIONS  85 

malice  in  her  voice.  But  when  Priscilla's  eyes  darkened 
at  that  she  quickly  relented.  ''Oh,  but  I'm  really  all  on 
your  side,  dear.  I'm  simply  wanting  to  be  courteous  and 
give  the  other  side  a  hearing." 

Priscilla  was  certainly  not  going  to  cry;  although  her 
mother's  tremulous  laughter  gave  her  a  strained  feeling 
in  her  throat  as  if  tears  were  threatening.  She  picked 
up  her  spade. 

"I'm  going  to  dig,"  she  said  defiantly. 

Mrs.  Evandine  wavered  a  moment,  looking  down  at 
her  daughter.  Priscilla  was  so  slight  and  so  lovely  that 
it  seemed  impossible  to  think  of  her  as  soiled  or  jaded  by 
hard  work;  and  yet  that  was  the  picture  that,  momen- 
tarily, Mrs.  Evandine  saw  in  imagination.  Neither  of 
them  could  have  borne  that.  The  other  picture,  from 
which,  motherlike,  she  had  earlier  revolted,  was  one  of 
an  entirely  different  character.  It  was  a  picture  that 
had  involved  no  material  sacrifice,  that  seemed  in  fact  to 
hold  no  least  hint  of  unpleasantness;  yet  it  was  one 
against  which  Mrs.  Evandine's  imagination  had  for  some 
reason  strongly  rebelled.  Without  moving,  she  said,  very 
distinctly : 

"I  wonder  what  Hilary  would  think  of  this." 

Priscilla  started,  and  stood  erect,  looking  at  her  mother 
with  something  like  horror  in  her  eyes.  She  had  not  once 
thought  of  Hilary. 


"I'm  sure  they  dislike  each  other,"  Priscilla  said,  lean- 
ing on  the  spade. 

"You  can't  altogether  wonder :  men  are  very  quick  to 
feel  rivalry — nearly  as  quick  as  women." 

"Are  women  so  quick?     Are  they  very  jealous?" 

"I  think  they  are.  You  must  remember  it  shows  itself 
in  very  different  ways.  Jealousy  is  very  much  involved 
with  personal  vanity;  and  vanity  is  a  profound  study." 


86  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Priscilla  laughed  at  her  mother's  dry  oracular  man- 
ner. 

"But  Hilary  has  never  .  .  ."  she  began.  Then,  check- 
ing what  she  felt  was  perhaps  an  unworthy  pretence  of 
not  understanding  Hilary's  feeling,  Priscilla  rather 
defiantly  said :  "David  likes  Stephen." 

"Because  he's  interested  in  him." 

"Oh,  much  more  than  that,"  persisted  Priscilla.  "He 
really  likes  him." 

Mrs.  Evandine  mused  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Well,  I'm  going  indoors,  dear.  You 
must  keep  very  cheerful,  and  not  think  about  Hilary  or 
David  or I  wish  Romeo  wouldn't  play  with  sun- 
beetles.     It's  not  a  nice  trait." 

With  such  an  irrelevancy  on  her  lips  Mrs.  Evandine 
lifted  Romeo  away  from  a  beetle,  helped  the  beetle  into 
security  with  the  aid  of  a  trowel,  and  disappeared  from 
her  daughter's  view. 

Left  alone,  Priscilla  began  fiercely  to  dig  until  she 
panted  from  the  exertion  in  this  hot  sunshine.  Only 
then,  realizing  that  her  labour  was  entirely  useless,  did 
she  desist.  Her  mother's  sympathetic  warning  had  only 
confirmed  her  own  uncomfortable  thoughts,  while  it  had 
in  no  way  affected  her  real  desire  or  her  real  resolve.  To 
Priscilla  everything  now  depended  upon  Stephen's  action. 
She  did  indeed  trust  him;  but  uncontrollably  she  wished 
to  be  at  hand  when  he  was  making  up  his  mind,  so  that 
she  could  prompt  him  in  accordance  with  her  own  in- 
clination.    Oh  dear,  if  only  she  knew! 

"How  ridiculous  it  is,"  she  said,  coming  back  to  her 
old  starting-point,  "to  have  misgivings.  Yes;  but  for 
him  they're  not  misgivings.  But  I  wonder  if  .  .  ."  Her 
cheeks  flamed  and  flamed  until  the  blood  seemed  to  hurt 
her.    "I  do  hope  he  doesn't  think  me  .  .  .  horrible.  .  .   ." 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  that  was  the  dreadful  doubt 
that  poisoned  her  happiness. 


CONSIDERATIONS  87 

vi 

As  Mrs.  Evandine  went  back  to  the  house  she  again 
met  her  husband,  whose  arm  she  took  as  they  fell  into 
step  together. 

"I  was  very  glad  to  see  Moore  last  night,"  he  observed. 
"He's  a  very  intelligent  fellow.  But  I'm  .  .  .  not  sure 
.  .  .  You  see  these  young  men  are  so  absolute.  David's 
the  same.  However,  I  must  admit  that  Moore  has  knowl- 
edge.   He  knows  more  than  David  does." 

"He's  what  you  would  call  'sound,'  then?"  Mrs. 
Evandine  queried,  not  altogether  mischievously. 

"Too  exacting.  Sound.  Yes,  sound.  I  would  almost 
say,  brilliant  as  well." 

"You  think  he  has  a  future?"  asked  Mrs.  Evandine. 

"Certainly." 

"He's  rather  savage,  you  must  remember." 

"My  dear,  if  he  specializes  in  savagery  he'll  certainly 
succeed.  He'll  be  unpopular;  but  what  of  that?  The 
stuff's  there." 

"You  would  be  ready  to  back  him?"  asked  Mrs. 
Evandine.     Her  husband  looked  puzzled. 

"Why  'back'  ?    And  what  does  the  word  mean  ?" 

She  laughed  at  his  fastidious  distaste. 

"It's  no  good  pretending  to  be  as  ignorant  as  a  judge !" 
she  remonstrated.  "I  was  wondering  if  you  would  think 
it  possible  to  help  him  to  make  a  reputation.  You  con- 
firm my  impression  that  he  has  unusual  ability.  I  wanted 
to  know  whether  you  are  sure  enough  of  that  to  interest 
yourself  in  his  future." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

Mr.  Evandine's  manner,  it  has  been  suggested,  was 
capable  of  being  ruffled  into  irritability;  but  never  with 
his  wife,  for  whom  he  had  a  suitable  respect.  Therefore 
his  tone  in  asking  the  question  was  one  of  intimate 
inquiry. 


88  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"Well,  Cedric :  Stephen  Moore  is  a  young  man  of  no 
means,  no  family,  no  education,  and  without  any  of  that 
'manner'  that  makes  for  success.    You  admit  that  ?" 

"Quite." 

"Very  well.  This  young  man  has  brains.  He  must 
be  enabled  to  use  them." 

"Quite." 

"And  we  must  help  him." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evandine  looked  at  each  other.  One 
might  very  quickly  have  counted  three  while  that  glance 
was  exchanged  and  until  Mr.  Evandine  realized  without 
further  explanation  what  was  in  his  wife's  mind  and  what 
was  dimly  in  prospect. 

"Oh  dear!  oh  dear!"  he  said  in  his  rather  mincing 
voice.  "Rilly!"  It  was  a  great  blow  to  him.  For  a 
moment  he  nervously  fidgeted,  and  clucked  his  tongue 
against  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  "But  .  .  .  but  would 
you  countenance  .  .  .  ?  Rilly,  rilly  .  .  .  What  is  Prissy 
thinking  about?" 

He  was  held  by  his  wife's  clear  eye,  from  which  he 
could  not  escape.  To  see  her  so  little  perturbed  soothed 
him  very  much. 

"Of  course,  my  dear,  if  you  think  .  .  ."  he  feebly  said. 

One  wonders  how  Priscilla  would  have  liked  to  hear 
this.  Particularly  one  wonders  how  Stephen  Moore 
would  have  liked  the  way  in  which  his  difficulties  were 
being  thus  innocently,  sympathetically,  but  perhaps  a  little 
undesirably  discussed.  But  Stephen  was  in  sufficient 
distress  with  his  own  affairs,  which  had  suddenly  taken 
a  new  and  most  unwelcome  turn. 


CHAPTER  V:  AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR 


AFTERWARDS,  Stephen  could  never  remember  any 
details  of  his  journey  home  on  that  fateful  Sunday 
night.  It  was  as  though  he  were  blind,  as  though  he  had 
been  stunned  at  the  reversal  of  all  his  plans,  so  delib- 
erately made,  and  now  so  suddenly  converted  into  the 
merest  dusty  inhuman  denial  of  human  impulse.  The 
road,  as  he  walked  quickly  along  it,  was  so  piercingly 
white  with  the  moon's  colourless  lustre  that  the  trees 
seemed  black  against  the  violet  sky.  The  silence  of  the 
lovely  evening  was  intense.  There  were  no  other  persons 
in  all  this  long  clear  avenue,  streaming  with  the  quiet 
moonlight.  ....  He  could  not  be  insensible  to  the  beauty 
by  which  he  was  surrounded,  but  he  was  unconscious  of 
it,  for  his  heart  was  throbbing  and  his  mouth  and  lips 
were  dry  with  excitement.  He  was  not  happy,  as  other 
lovers  are :  he  was  excited,  intoxicated  with  the  new  and 
strange  adventure  to  which  he  was  committed :  but 
happiness  was  far  from  his  mood.  Yet  he  was  not 
afraid. 

Over  and  over  again,  once  the  first  marvel  had  departed, 
he  was  astounded  at  Priscilla's  reality.  He  had  thought 
of  her  as  lovely,  as  exquisite ;  as  something  inconceivably 
remote  from  his  possession.  But  now  that  he  had  held 
her  in  his  arms,  now  that  he  could  intensely  re-imagine 
that  contact,  her  hands  raised  upon  his  breast,  her  soft 
cheek,  her  softer  lips  and  hair,  pressed  by  his  own, 
Priscilla  was  transformed  in  his  memory.  He  was  con- 
scious of  triumph,  of  sheer  triumph.  For  this  moment 
nothing  else  mattered.     All  that  he  had  stumbled  to  say 

89 


90  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

about  his  poorness — every  attempt  that  he  had  made  to 
reduce  their  love  to  the  plane  of  his  daily  preoccupations 
— had  been,  it  appeared,  wholly  irrelevant ;  for  a  new  and 
intenser  reality  had  touched  him.  Priscilla's  kisses  were 
no  longer  dreams — the  mockery  of  eternal  temptation; 
they  were  no  longer  sacred  emblems,  sealing  confession 
and  promise ;  he  passionately  desired  to  kiss  Priscilla 
again  and  again  because  she  was  the  woman  he  loved, 
and  for  no  other  reason  whatever. 

He  came  abreast  of  the  little  church  with  its  white 
wooden  paling,  and  walked  swiftly  onward  in  the  steely 
shadow  of  the  tall  trees  beyond  the  church,  and  past  the 
dull  ponds  at  the  farther  side  of  the  road  where  a  long 
broad  avenue  of  grass  lay  at  right  angles  to  the  highway. 
He  breasted  the  hill,  and  saw  the  trams  flash  by  along 
the  Great  North  Road,  and  his  pace  grew  slower  at  the 
return  to  ordinary  life.  The  sight  of  the  trams  made 
him  long  to  go  back  to  Priscilla,  to  give  a  thousand 
explanations  that  had  occurred  to  his  eagerly  seeking 
mind  as  he  walked.  He  wanted  in  some  way  to  prostrate 
himself  before  her.  He  felt  that  he  would  have  given 
anything  to  be  able  once  more  to  assure  her  of  his  love 
and  his  intrepid  resolve.  When  he  remembered  that  she 
had  said  she  could  not  bear  him  to  be  so  humble,  he  felt 
sick  with  shame;  for  the  humility  had  been  hers,  as  he 
now  instinctively  saw,  in  spite  of  all  the  fumbling  efforts 
of  his  tedious  vanity. 

The  tramcar  journey  through  the  lighted  streets,  with 
men  talking  and  women  laughing  and  one  or  two  children 
peevish  through  sleepiness,  seemed  to  pass  in  a  moment. 
He  could  hear,  but  he  did  not  notice,  the  men  saying,  "Oo 
yes,  they  made  'im.  I  ses  to  'im,  'Well,  George,  I  ses; 
it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  like  that,  I  ses;  but  it 
stands  to  common  sense !'  Told  'im  off,  you  see.  Well, 
he  didn't  like  that.  .  .  ."  Nor  the  women  saying,  "You 
ought  to've  seen  'er  .  .  .  'Air  'angin'  down  .  .  .  face  all 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR  91 

dirty.  Three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Oo,  she's  awful!" 
Ordinarily  he  would  have  heard  these  things  and  thought 
about  them,  recognizing  the  quite  universal  habit  of  ex- 
pository narrative  and  detraction ;  only  now,  when  his 
mind  was  distraught,  he  gave  no  heed,  but  sat  silently 
in  the  darkness,  watching  with  sightless  eyes  the  black 
crowds  of  promenaders  upon  the  pavements  below. 

At  last  the  tram — the  one  going  from  Highgate  almost 
to  the  heart  of  the  City — reached  Highbury;  and  he 
joined  the  pedestrians.  Only  then  did  he  become  defi- 
nitely aware  of  his  surroundings,  of  the  tall  shuttered 
shops  of  the  Upper  Street;  and  the  respectable  crescent 
separated  from  the  road  by  dismal  railings  and  a  patch 
of  grass  and  its  own  gravel  sweep;  and  the  big  grey 
church  that  stood  so  clear  of  all  the  neighbouring  houses ; 
and  the  dull  streets  joining  the  Upper  Street;  and  the 
clang-clang-clanging  tramcars  that  flew  by  in  a  sudden 
hurry.  He  sighed  impatiently  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 
moon  benevolently  dreaming  above  all  these  shabby  streets 
and  this  noisy  traffic  and  this  unceasing,  talking  sweep 
of  the  men  and  women,  and  girls  and  boys,  who  were 
wandering  up  and  down  the  wide  thoroughfare.  How 
different  was  this  scene  from  the  one  so  recently  stamped 
upon  his  memory  and  his  imagination.  How  different 
was  Priscilla's  home  from  his.  A  slow  creeping  feeling 
of  paralysis  threatened  him  at  the  recognition  of  facts  so 
unwelcome.  To  come  from  Priscilla  to  this !  His  heart 
sank.  How  could  he  ever  bridge  the  distance  that  divided 
them?    If  love  were  all! 

Ah  .  .  .  They  will  take  us, 
Bleed  us,  break  us, 
Shackle  and  smother, 
And  leave  us  stark! 
They  call  it  living, 
Clutching  and  striving  .  .  . 


92  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

For  an  instant  iJiat  agony,  the  thought  that  love  might 
indeed  be  dishonoured  in  the  base  turmoil  of  mere  exist- 
ence, overcame  him.  Even  amid  the  crowd,  lost  in  the 
solitude  of  many  passengers,  Stephen  was  conscious  of 
panic  fear  of  that  disaster.  It  was  the  consequence  only 
of  his  mood,  so  recently  among  the  stars,  so  abruptly 
brought  down  among  the  houses  and  the  pressing  con- 
flicting streams  of  people,  and  the  shabby  turnings  and 
the  long  weary  memory  of  his  years  of  sacrifice  in  a 
battle  so  stern  and  so  remorseless.  Thoughts  that  are 
discouraging,  however  inevitable  may  be  their  truth,  can- 
not long  dominate  the  mind  of  a  brave  man ;  and 
Stephen's  distrustful  mood  passed  in  a  moment.  It  was 
but  a  momentary  fit  of  hopelessness.  But  Stephen  had 
known  the  reality  of  his  lonely  fight  with  necessity.  He 
knew  how  silently  hunger  forces  its  opponents  by  gradual 
degrees  of  exhaustion  first  to  their  knees  and  then  to  the 
slow  squalid  defeat  which  is  acceptance  of  death  that  is 
worse  than  death.  He  was  not  a  coward ;  but  he  could 
not  idly  pretend  that  there  was  no  danger.  He  had  simply 
been  reminded  of  its  imminence,  and  of  his  own  imperfect 
weapons  of  defence.  Well,  he  must  gird  himself  anew, 
with  fresh  resolution! 

At  his  own  door  Stephen  mechanically  drew  forth  the 
key,  entered,  and  made  his  way  up  the  stairs.  It  was  only 
when  he  had  passed  the  first  floor  that  he  became  aware 
that  there  were  voices  above,  raised  to  quite  audible 
heights  of  merriment.  Who  could  be  there?  He  could 
think  of  no  possible  visitors  upon  this  Sunday  evening. 
He  tried  for  an  instant,  pausing  upon  the  staircase,  to 
distinguish  the  tones,  but  unavailingly ;  and  with  a  sense 
that  laughter  this  evening  would  be  unbearable  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  sitting-room. 

His  entrance  seemed  to  check  the  high  spirits  of  Roy 
and  his  friend  Tom  Harrington,  who  were  standing  by 
the  fireplace  with  cigarettes  between  their  fingers,  lolling 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR  93 

against  the  mantelpiece.  It  seemed  to  check  some  anec- 
dote which  was  being  related  by  the  old  man,  who,  dressed 
in  his  distinguished  suit  of  blue  serge,  with  his  fine  spotted 
bow  tie  and  spotted  handkerchief  in  the  breast-pocket,  lay 
back  in  a  wicker  chair  by  the  window,  his  mouth  stretched 
wide  in  a  white  streak  of  smilingness.  Stephen's  quick 
eye,  quite  restored  to  its  normal  activities  of  relentless 
observation,  took  this  all  in  immediately.  He  saw  Tom 
Harrington's  face  less  frank  than  it  had  been  a  few  weeks 
earlier,  he  saw  that  Roy  did  not  look  up  with  any  friend- 
liness as  he  came  in,  but  that  on  the  contrary  he  looked 
as  though  he  were  conscious  of  some  repressive  influ- 
ence. There  was  momentary  constraint,  as  usual,  even 
in  the  old  man's  manner,  for  the  old  man  knew,  as  well 
as  Roy,  the  penetrating  lengths  to  which  Stephen's  glance 
could  go. 

But  these  three  figures  were  not  the  only  ones  in  the 
room,  and  it  was  the  last  one  of  all  that  made  Stephen's 
heart  jump.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  believe  his  first 
impression  true;  then  every  faintest  tinge  of  colour  left 
his  face,  which  seemed  to  sink  in  until  his  cheek-bones 
became  startlingly  prominent.  The  lamplight,  thrown 
imperfectly  over  the  lower  half  of  the  room,  saved  his 
change  of  bearing  from  disclosure,  and  his  self-control 
was  so  good  that  it  did  not  even  here  betray  him.  For, 
seated  beside  Dorothy  on  the  old-fashioned  horsehair 
sofa,  which  was  one  of  the  few  things  remaining  in  the 
family  that  had  belonged  to  the  old  man's  own  furnishing 
days,  was  Minnie  Bayley. 


With  a  nod  to  Tom  Harrington,  Stephen  went  straight 
to  the  remaining  visitor  and  held  out  his  hand.  Once 
the  shock  of  recognition  was  over  he  had  become  curiously 
cool. 


94  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"This  is  very  unexpected,"  he  said.    "How  are  you  ?" 

".  .  .  the  story  .  .  .  Mahomet  and  the  mountain  .  .  ." 
She  could  hardly  speak,  her  teeth  were  so  disposed  to 
chatter.  Her  voice  waved  about  among  uncertain  tones, 
so  remarkably,  in  spite  of  her  soft  speech  and  the  renewed 
conversation  of  the  old  man  with  the  two  boys,  that  even 
Dorothy  noticed  the  strong  emotion  under  which  Minnie 
laboured.  The  hand  that  Stephen  took  trembled  in  his 
grasp ;  but  Minnie's  smile  never  varied,  and  her  eyes  were 
never  still  for  a  moment.  "You  don't  come  to  see 
me  .  .  ."  she  went  on.  "I  wondered  ...  if  you  were 
ill.  It's  been  quite  a  jolly  party.  .  .  .  These  three  boys!" 
Her  little  laugh  quivered  out  and  was  as  quickly  checked, 
as  if  by  an  effort  of  determination. 

Stephen  brought  a  chair  and  sat  near,  never  meeting 
her  eyes,  but  always  looking  at  the  two  hands  so  tightly 
clasped  in  her  lap.  They  were  long  white  hands,  very 
thin ;  and  her  wrists  were  thin  and  slightly  wasted.  As 
her  hands  moved  she  showed  that  they  too  had  hollows 
in  them,  and  that  the  bones  projected  sharply  at  the 
knuckles  when  the  fingers  were  bent.  Stephen  could  not 
raise  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and  in  a  moment  she  began 
nervously  to  move  her  wedding-ring  up  and  down  the 
finger  upon  which  it  rested. 

"Stephen  .  .  .  just  fancy!  Mrs.  Bayley  came  the 
moment  you  had  gone !"  said  Dorothy  impetuously.  "But 
she's  been  very  nice  about  it,  and  hasn't  shown  she 
minded  a  bit !" 

"That  was  very  kind,"  Stephen  murmured.  "What 
a  pity !"  In  spite  of  his  feeling  of  imposed  coolness,  he 
did  not  know  what  he  said. 

"He's  only  saying  that,"  Minnie  explained.  "He 
means  'what  a  good  job!'"  She  again  laughed  that 
little  staccato  giggling  laugh. 

"That's  not  true,"  Dorothy  protested  stoutly.  "Stephen 
always  means  what  he  says." 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR  95 

"Not  to  a  woman,"  said  Minnie.    "Nor  what  he  does." 

For  one  instant  she  had  made  him  look  at  her ;  but  the 
effort  had  cost  almost  too  much,  and  Minnie's  fingers 
broke  involuntarily  from  their  tight  clasp,  so  that  her 
handkerchief  was  knocked  to  the  floor.  It  was  inevitable 
that  as  she  took  it  again  from  Stephen  their  hands  should 
meet. 

"Stephen — excuse  me — "  Dorothy  inclined  her  head 
to  the  table.  "Anything  to  eat ?  You've  had  something? 
I  thought  you  must  have." 

"Have  you  had  a  good  time?"  asked  Minnie. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Where  you've  been  .  .  .  Have  you  .  .  .  Oh,  don't 
look  so.  .  .  ."  The  last  words  were  in  the  lowest  pos- 
sible whisper,  meant  only  for  Stephen's  ear.  His  eyes 
closed  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  were  forcing  himself  to 
take  the  scene  exactly  as  he  found  it. 

"Yes  .  .  .  excellent.    Thank  you :    I  had  ..." 

"He's  enjoyed  it  so  much  that  he's  .  .  .  speechless 
with  joy,"  cried  Dorothy.  "And  we've  been  having  a 
good  time,  too,  haven't  we,  Mrs.  Bayley?" 

"Oh,  splendid !"  Again  she  laughed,  and  looked  im- 
ploringly at  Stephen,  sitting  beside  Dorothy  like  a  school- 
girl, and  looking,  in  her  present  pallor,  much  prettier 
than  usual. 

"You  come  here,  Stephen,"  Dorothy  said  abruptly, 
moving  from  the  sofa.  "I'm  going  to  make  some  more 
lemonade.     And  you  can  talk  to  Mrs.  Bayley." 

Slowly  and  awkwardly  Stephen  took  his  place  by 
Minnie's  side.  She  was  beautifully  dressed  in  a  very 
light  grey  silk  costume,  cut  low  at  the  neck;  and  her 
mouse-coloured  hair  was  brushed  up  away  from  her  small 
and  delicately  formed  ears.  She  was  perhaps  thirty, 
obviously  very  nervous.  Her  eyes,  which  were  of  a  dark 
brown,  were  rather  full,  but  warm  and  timid,  and  she 
used  them  too  much  in  speaking,  as  she  did  her  lips.    As 


96  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Stephen  sat  down  she  turned  more  directly  towards  him, 
instead  of  turning  only  her  head,  as  she  had  done  to 
Dorothy. 

"I  wrote  to  you,"  she  whispered.    "I  had  to  write  .  .  ." 

"When?"  Stephen's  inquiry  was  one  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"A  fortnight  ago.     Didn't  you  get  it?" 

"Did  you  send  it  here?"  He  was  now  questioning 
sharply. 

"Yes.  It  didn't  matter.  I  only  asked  you  to  come  .  .  . 
Stephen,  I  can't  .  .  .  You  must  come  and  see  me  some- 
times. .  .  ."  Her  voice  was  hardly  above  a  whisper: 
unknowingly  she  had  approached  her  face  nearer  to  his, 
so  that  Stephen  saw  her  faint  colour  rising. 

"I've  seen  no  letter  at  all.  You  must  tell  me  what 
you  said." 

"Only  'I  want  to  see  you  so  badly'  .  .  .  Something 
like  'Do  come.'  "  Minnie  for  a  moment  looked  fright- 
ened :  she  blanched.  "What  is  it  ?  Why  are  you  looking 
like  that?" 

Stephen  had  noticed  that  the  murmur  of  voices  had 
stopped  for  a  second.  He  looked  quickly  up,  to  meet  the 
old  man's  wide  fixed  smile  of  indulgent  malice  directed 
at  him  from  the  wicker  chair  by  the  open  window. 


Ill 

In  ancient  days  the  old  man  had  been  a  lithographic 
draughtsman,  and  had  made  a  good  deal  of  money.  He 
was  employed  in  the  litho  department  of  a  big  printing 
firm,  and  at  one  time  had  become  head  of  the  department. 
Even  in  his  days  of  prosperity,  however,  he  belonged  to 
what  is  often  affectionately  called  "the  old  school,"  which 
means  a  class  of  men  devoted  to  the  study  of  the  bottle 
and  the  tankard.  As  he  had  a  very  sweet  tenor  voice, 
he  was  in  great  demand  as  a  singer  upon  occasions  when 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR  97 

his  fellow-members  of  the  old  school  gathered  together 
for  purposes  of  hilarity.  The  old  man  had  shared  their 
sports,  had  led  them,  had  fought  with  prowess,  loved  and 
philandered  with  flattering  unerringness ;  and  he  had 
bettered  with  his  peers  upon  every  race  in  the  calendar. 
Handsome,  ruthless,  confident,  he  had  been  a  favorite; 
all  were  his  friends  and  his  companions.  Spirits  and 
horses,  Bohemian  club  evenings  and  bar-palaverings,  had 
all  combined  to  work  upon  his  nerve.  His  hand  and  eye 
kept  wonderfully  steady,  and  it  became  a  legend  that  he 
never  handled  the  brush  as  surely  as  when  he  was  drunk. 
It  became  a  boast  with  him.  But  he  could  eat  no  break- 
fasts; his  need  grew  for  morning  stimulants;  by  noon 
he  was  often,  with  little  trips  "over  to  the  corner,"  rather 
woolly  and  "muzzy"  and  vague  in  his  speech.  His  hand 
and  eye  lost,  not  steadiness  but  precision.  His  work 
became  weaker  and  more  elaborate  and  deficient  in 
"quality."  He  went  from  one  firm  to  another.  It  was 
a  pity;  the  man  was  a  good  man,  his  employers  knew; 
but  it  could  not  go  on.  Still  the  old  man's  cronies 
boisterously  hailed  him.  "Here's  old  Moore!"  they 
would  cry  with  welcoming  laughter.  "How  are  you, 
Jack,  old  boy?"  To  each  other,  they  said  :  "D'you  know 
him?  Charming  fellow.  .  .  .  Got  his  almanac  in  his 
pocket?  .  .  .  No,  but  he's  got  a  mighty  thirst  on  him. 
.  .  .  What's  going  to  win  the  Cesarewitch,  Moore?  .  .  . 
Here,  Moore,  what'ller  have?  .  .  .  No,  you  must  have 
it  with  me.     Now  boys  .  .  ." 

So  Mrs.  Moore  grew  poorer,  and  so  the  children  went 
without  clothing  and  without  food;  until  the  old  man 
began  to  take  even  the  money  his  wife  earned.  But  she 
never  thought  of  leaving  him,  until  the  day  of  her  death 
came,  because  she  loved  him  still,  and  because  the  kind- 
ness of  his  manner  to  her,  as  to  everybody  else,  was 
unfailing.  Drunk  or  sober,  the  old  man  never  lost  the 
sweetness  of  his  tongue.    It  was  long  since  he  had  worked 


98  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

at  his  craft,  though  he  sometimes  spoke  of  "work";  and 
what  money  he  earned  for  himself  was  earned  by  the 
singing  of  the  sweet  old  tenor  ballads  in  a  voice  that  was 
even  now  almost  beautiful  and  always  very  readily 
pathetic.  He  also  had  some  reputation  of  knowing  the 
ropes  as  a  picker-up  of  cheap  genuine  antiques ;  and  from 
these  commissions  he  no  doubt  amassed  a  proportion  of 
legitimate  booty  for  his  own  trouble.  Stephen  sometimes 
wondered  if  the  old  man's  steadily  diminishing  furniture 
had  been  sold  as  antique  merely  because  it  was  dilapidated. 
The  money  the  old  man  made  was  always  spent  in  jovial 
company,  as  was  most  of  the  old  man's  time;  and  to 
his  family,  recognizing  their  very  questioning  attitude 
towards  him,  the  old  man  grew  noticeably  cooler.  He 
had  grown  also  more  secretive,  as  most  of  those  who 
are  good  fellows  and  charming  fellows  incline  to  do.  He 
never  told  them  anything  about  himself  excepting  mys- 
teriously to  hint  at  important  appointments  at  the 
Salisbury  or  at  Anderton's  in  Fleet  Street;  but  went 
his  way,  using  the  home  as  an  hotel,  borrowing  from 
its  staff,  and  never  paying  his  bill.  It  was  the  life  of 
a  butterfly,  filled  with  a  gorgeous  insubstantial  un- 
reality. 

There  was  feud  between  Stephen  and  the  old  man.  The 
old  man,  having  been  everywhere  loved  and  approved 
all  his  life  by  his  inferiors,  could  not  tolerate  the  new 
agnosticism,  the  scepticism,  the  corrosion  which  he  found 
in  Stephen's  attitude  of  inelastic  rectitude.  Could  he  be 
blamed  for  preferring  the  easy  virtues  of  the  brighter 
path?  Not  his  notion  of  life  to  play  the  puritan,  to  do 
things  because  it  was  right  or  necessary  that  they  should 
be  done.  "Let  me  play  the  Fool,"  said  the  old  man. 
"With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come!" — 
though  he  was  very  careful  by  rest  and  by  the  avoidance 
of  all  troublesome  incidents  to  preserve  his  youthful 
appearance.     Always  smartly  dressed,  smartly  carried, 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR  99 

and  irrepressibly  benign,  the  old  man  could  have  given 
to  no  one  but  an  expert  in  such  recondite  matters  the 
clue  to  his  secret.  His  was  the  lighter  burden  only.  And 
while  the  old  man  had  thought  only  of  the  day  and  the 
splendour  of  the  seizable  moment,  Stephen's  lot  in  that 
family  had  been  always  to  think  of  the  morrow.  In  a 
family  there  must  always  be  one  to  do  that;  and  if  the 
two  men  jarred  upon  each  other  may  it  not  have  been 
that  the  difference  between  them  was  one  not  only  of 
temperament  but  also  of  office? 

That  there  was  hostility  between  them,  undeclared,  but 
for  that  very  reason  the  more  intense  and  the  more  potent, 
might  have  been  seen  in  that  exchanged  glance.  Stephen's 
was  sombre,  resentful,  almost  scathing  in  its  cold  sus- 
picion; the  old  man's  was  complacent  and  malicious  and 
— in  a  strange  way  that  always  rankled  with  Stephen — at 
the  same  time  subtly  indulgent.  The  old  man,  sitting  as 
he  did  by  the  open  window,  had  upon  one  side  of  his  face 
the  reflected  light  of  the  clear  evening,  and  upon  the  other 
the  lamp's  diffused  beam.  His  eyes  were  in  shadow. 
Stephen,  sitting  with  Minnie  Bayley  upon  the  sofa,  was 
more  directly  in  the  light  of  the  room,  and  his  attitude 
towards  Minnie  was  more  directly  to  be  observed.  No- 
body, sitting  where  the  old  man  was,  could  fail  to  notice 
the  suggestion  of  intimacy  conveyed  by  her  increased 
nearness  to  Stephen,  or  by  his  own  embarrassed  but 
dominating  manner  as  he  inclined  his  head  nearer  to  her 
moving  lips  and  pathetic  eyes. 

It  was  that  intimacy  which,  secure  in  his  distant  seat, 
the  old  man  seemed  with  such  malignant  tranquillity  to 
be  enjoying,  his  smile  clearly  to  be  seen,  but  on  no  account 
to  be  read ;  while  the  boys  still  talked  and  laughed  by  the 
fireplace  and  Dorothy  brought  in  the  lemonade.  Stephen's 
eyes  dropped,  and  he  breathed  deeply.  Very  well :  that 
was  another  difficulty,  as  this  was.  He  did  not  think  now 
of  Priscilla :  he  was  thinking  much  more  clearly  than  it 


100  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

was  yet  possible  to  do  of  her.  He  was  trying  to  push 
away  all  crowding  confusions  and  to  get  back  to  that 
prime  reality  which  was  his  own  deliberate,  unhesitating 
will.     To  be  in  tangible  difficulty  stiffened  him. 


IV 

"Dorothy  said  you  had  gone  to  Totteridge,  my  dear 
Stephen,"  said  the  old  man,  with  the  mild  inflexion  of 
one  timidly  interested  in  his  son's  welfare.  Stephen, 
recognizing  the  stunt,  scowled,  but  made  no  response. 

"So  you've  been  to  Totteridge?"  Minnie  looked  curious, 
wondering  where  he  had  been.  "That's  in  the  north, 
isn't  it  ?    Is  it  nice  there  ?"    Artlessly  she  put  the  question. 

"Yes.    Very  nice." 

"Nice  people  ?"    Minnie's  face  was  half  turned  away. 

"Yes.    Very  nice." 

She  gave  a  little  laugh,  and  looked  down  at  her  hands. 

"Put  a  penny  in  the  slot  and  the  figure — says  'very 
nice,'  "  she  answered  with  an  air  of  suppressed  impa- 
tience.   "I  expect  they're  brainy  people.    Not  like  me." 

Of  that  he  took  no  notice,  which  distressed  her. 

"Whetstone  very  little  changed,  I  suppose?"  the  old 
man  suggested. 

"Since  I  was  there — yes.  Were  you  thinking  of  longer 
ago?" 

"I  can  remember  it  as  all  fields.  Before  the  Finchleys 
spread."  The  old  man,  who  had  a  smattering  of  anti- 
quarian knowledge  about  London,  could  always  remember 
the  farther  suburban  districts  as  open  land.  He  could 
remember  a  time  when  that  long,  shop-fronted  thorough- 
fare was  not,  as  it  must  now  be,  called  Green  Lanes  in 
mockery,  and  when  Clerkenwell  and  Islington,  in  which 
districts  all  his  life  had  been  lived,  were  the  abodes  of 
rich  jewellers  and  craftsmen,  not  yet  the  muddy  and  dusty 
congestions  which  they  now  are. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR  101 

"Once  you're  off  the  road  at  Whetstone  it  is  still  pretty 
open,"  remarked  Stephen. 

"Your  friends  got  a  nice  house?"  asked  Minnie.  "Oh 
— I  know  .  .  .  Don't  say  it!"  Again  her  quivering, 
breathless  laugh  was  checked.  But  when  she  saw  his 
brow  slightly  puckered  her  eyes  became  once  more  im- 
ploring. "I  can't  help  it,"  she  murmured  very  low.  "I'd 
given  you  up  .  .  .  you're  so  late.     I'm  all  silly." 

"Secrets?"  archly  inquired  the  old  man,  opening  his 
eyes  and  smiling  as  he  came  towards  them.  "I  really 
must  hear  what  is  going  on.  My  deafness  .  .  .  you 
know  the  consequences  of  advanced  age.  .  .  ." 

"Get  along  with  you!  Advanced  age!"  protested 
Minnie.  "You  look  younger  than  Stephen."  The  two 
boys  also  came  nearer,  and  laughed  at  her  speech.  Stephen 
left  her  side,  and  stood  against  his  father.  "There's  not 
much  likeness  between  you  two." 

"We  have  one  similarity,"  the  old  man  said.  "We're 
very  fond  of  the  ladies."  He  smiled  down  at  her.  "At 
least,  when  they're  pretty  and  charming  as  well." 

Stephen  turned  away,  and  Minnie  also  rose  to  her  feet, 
looking  at  her  wrist-watch. 

"I  must  go." 

"Allow  me  to  see  you  part  of  the  way,"  said  the  old 
man  gallantly.     She  started. 

"Oh,  there's  no  need !    I  can  get  a  tram  to  the  door." 

"I'll  go  with  Mrs.  Bayley,"  said  Stephen  curtly. 

"No,  no,  my  boy.  That's  my  privilege,"  the  old  man 
insisted,  with  a  pleasant  and  distinguished  wave  of  his 
shapely  hand.     "My  hat  is  here." 

For  a  moment  Minnie  stood  nonplussed,  turning  to 
Stephen  as  if  in  spite  of  her  wish  not  to  do  so.  The  old 
man  did  not  give  way.  It  was  clear  that  he  would  not 
relinquish  his  claim.  There  was  no  opportunity  what- 
ever for  any  speech  between  Minnie  and  Stephen  before 
Minnie  followed  Dorothy  from  the  room ;  and  when  she 


102  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

returned  with  a  smart  grey  hat  which  matched  her  cos- 
tume perched  daringly  to  one  side  of  her  head  there  was 
no  time  for  more  than  a  hurried  word.  She  secured  that 
only  by  having  trouble  with  her  long  silken  scarf. 

"You  will?"  she  murmured.     "Any  evening." 

"Yes  .  .  .  this  week."  He  took  her  hand  and 
pressed  it. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  stepping  forward 
with  a  courtly  bow.  "Stephen,  poor  fellow,  has  had  a 
long  journey.  A  walk  will  do  me  good.  You  ought  to 
come  more  often,  Mrs.  Bayley.  We  miss  you,  really  we 
do,  since  you  moved  away  from  us.    Don't  we,  Stephen !" 

They  were  gone.  Stephen  heard  the  slamming  of  the 
front  door.  What  an  age  it  seemed  since  he  had  seen 
Priscilla.    He  found  that  he  was  trembling  slightly. 


CHAPTER  VI:  STEPHEN  ALONE 


WHEN  one  enters  the  British  Museum  the  reading- 
room  lies  straight  ahead,  shielded  by  folding 
doors  and  guarded  by  its  own  commissioners.  Past  the 
doors  is  a  short  passage,  and  then  are  more  doors ;  after 
which  one  is  in  the  great  circular  room  with  its  high, 
domed  roof  and  its  rows  of  desks  arranged  like  the 
spokes  of  a  wheel  for  half  of  the  floor-space.  A  warm 
stifling  glow  from  the  hot-water  pipes  stales  the  air  quite 
early  in  the  day,  so  that  eyes  are  made  to  ache  and  heads 
to  nod,  and  so  that  when  one's  attention  strays  the  painted 
names  of  eminent  authors  placed  just  under  the  dome 
hold  it  with  a  sort  of  languorous  fascination.  The  names, 
and  in  particular  the  omissions  of  other  names,  form  a 
curious  problem  in  the  art  of  selection.  It  becomes  quite 
clear  that  a  hundred  names  were  put  into  a  hat  and  chosen 
at  random  from  the  hat  until  the  available  spaces  were 
filled.  But  while  it  is  easy  to  laugh  at  the  names,  to 
deplore  the  strange  biscuit-coloured  paint,  to  resent  the 
superheated  atmosphere,  the  British  Museum  reading- 
room  does  somehow  stand  to  the  Londoner  as  a  holy  of 
holies.  Stephen  Moore,  sardonically  listening  to  the 
horrid  coughs  of  the  congregation  before  wisdom,  and 
fully  aware  of  all  inconveniences  and  oppressivenesses 
as  they  are  illustrated  in  the  conduct  of  official  establish- 
ments, was  as  glad  of  the  reading-room  as  was  Wendy 
Darling  of  Peter  Pan.  When  the  clock  chimed  he  some- 
times was  thrilled  at  its  extraordinary  sweetness;  and 
when  he  benefited  by  the  arrangements  he  was  still  ca- 
pable of  appreciating  keenly  the  awful  nearly  human  saga- 
ciousness  of  those  in  charge.     He  would  observe  with 

103 


104  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

kindness  the  miserably  imprisoned  men  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  to  whom  he  returned  his  books  when  he  had 
finished  with  them.  They  represented  to  Stephen  the 
official  hostages  to  misfortune. 

And  Stephen,  on  the  Monday  morning  after  that 
Sunday  whose  events  have  been  described,  was  punctually 
at  his  usual  place,  waiting  to  receive  the  books  upon  which 
his  morning's  work  was  to  be  based.  He  had  been  given 
a  commission  by  a  publisher  for  whom  he  worked  to 
prepare  material  for  a  book  on  the  River  Fleet,  which 
takes  its  rise  among  the  hills  of  Hampstead  and  Highgate 
and  continues  to  flow  underground,  all  unknown  and 
forgotten,  until  it  reaches  the  Thames  about  Black  friars 
Bridge.  The  work  upon  which  he  was  engaged  was 
purely  mechanical,  a  matter  of  extracting  and  collating, 
and  he  would  earn  by  hard  absorption  only  a  few  pounds 
and  get  absolutely  no  advantage  by  the  book's  publica- 
tion. But  the  details  interested  him.  It  was  wonderful 
to  him  to  think  of  this  river,  so  lost  to  knowledge,  flowing 
still  as  a  sewer  under  the  streets  he  so  often  trod  in  his 
evening  wanderings  about  London.  So,  for  a  time,  he 
was  become  an  antiquary,  very  profoundly  ignorant, 
dreading  mistakes  of  proportion  and  even  of  fact,  but 
nevertheless  engaged  upon  a  work  that  did  arouse  his 
attention  and  his  resolve  to  achieve  accuracy.  Fie  had 
come  by  the  work  in  a  curious  way.  A  publisher  for 
whom  he  had  done  some  very  meagrely  paid  research  had 
been  approached  by  a  committee  of  three  old  gentlemen 
representing  a  small  society.  They  wanted  such  a  book 
prepared,  to  be  published  at  their  expense,  with  their 
names  upon  the  title-page,  and  to  be  illustrated  from  old 
plans.  Individually  the  three  old  gentlemen  were  almost 
wholly  ignorant,  as  they  had  been  each  successful  in  a 
lowly  trade  quite  unconnected  with  literature  or  research. 
But  when  they  learned  that  the  publisher  could  provide 
a  trustworthy  compiler  the  passion  for  literary  renown 


STEPHEN  ALONE  105 

glowed  in  their  hearts  like  patriotism.  They  would  get 
this  compiler  dutifully  to  do  the  work ;  and  they  would 
reap  the  rewards.  To  them  would  stand  the  credit  of 
rescuing  the  Fleet  from  oblivion.  Stephen  was  to  have 
thirty  pounds  for  his  scrupulous  examinations  and  col- 
lations. 

He  found  the  river  upon  this  Monday  morning  a  god- 
send for  just  as  long  as  it  would  hold  his  for  ever  flying 
attention.  For  Stephen  had  much  to  think  upon  and  to 
settle  in  his  own  mind,  and  when  clear  decisions  are  to 
be  taken  and  to  be  followed  by  decisive  actions  a  state 
of  nerves  bordering  upon  neurasthenia  is  obviously  one 
that  gives  little  assistance.  He  was  called  upon  to  decide 
the  immediate  future  not  only  of  his  own  life  but,  in 
various  degrees,  of  the  lives  of  five  other  people.  He 
had  to  make  up  his  mind  quite  definitely;  and  after  a 
wretchedly  sleepless  night  he  could  not  think.  He  had 
to  settle  what  was  to  be  done  about  Dorothy  and  about 
Roy.  He  had  to  settle  what  he  must  offer  and  promise 
Priscilla.  And  there  was  the  old  man.  And  Minnie 
Bayley.  The  old  man  was  only  a  danger  to  peace  of 
mind,  to  integrity  of  purse ;  he  and  Roy  could  both  look 
after  themselves  if  only  they  zuould  do  so.  That  was  the 
difficulty  with  those  two.  The  other  three  were  women. 
All,  after  the  manner,  or  the  unfortunate  necessity,  of 
their  sex,  looked  to  him.  And  Stephen  was  not  one  of 
those  men  who,  in  an  expressive  figure,  can  cut  the 
painter.  To  him  life  was  complex,  not  simple;  a  thing 
full  of  involvements  and  counter-currents  and  reactions 
and  interactions.  He  could  not  in  any  one  of  these  three 
cases  strike  out  simply  for  himself,  for  his  own  imme- 
diate impulse;  for  to  each  one  of  these  women  he  repre- 
sented at  this  moment,  whatever  might  be  the  accidental 
quality  which  gave  him  so  difficult  a  role,  the  central  point 
or  figure  in  their  pathetically  limited  vision  of  life.  He 
must  not  fail  in  any  one  case  to  carry  through  the  respon- 


106  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

sibility  which  he  acknowledged.  Yet  Stephen  may  well 
have  sighed  for  that  simple  passage  to  the  realization  of 
personal  will  which  is  trodden  only  in  real  life  by  the 
purely  selfish  and  untroubled  and  in  fiction  by  those  who 
are  marked  out  from  the  first  to  play  the  hero  or  ineffable 
juvenile  lead.  Neither  of  those  parts  was  within  the 
mimetic  range  of  Stephen,  who  aspired  only  to  the 
humbler  impersonation  of  a  minor  character  in  the  play 
of  life. 

ii 

Stephen  Moore  was  born  in  Islington  in  1882;  and  at 
the  time  with  which  this  story  deals  he  was  twenty-eight. 
His  mother  died  when  he  was  fifteen,  when  Dorothy  was 
eight  years  old  and  when  Roy  wras  a  little  boy  of  five. 
She  died  worn  out  with  work  and  anxiety,  but  without 
ever  uttering  a  word  of  that  gathering  mistrust  and  even 
detestation  of  her  husband  which  was  hardly  even  then 
taking  stealthily  the  place  of  her  constancy.  That  is  to 
say,  she  died  before  any  explosion  could  precipitate  her 
with  sudden  force  into  the  least  suspicion  of  the  accumu- 
lating hatred  which  would  have  made  her  life  unbearable. 
She  died  still  loving  her  husband. 

When  Stephen  was  eight  he  fell  down  a  flight  of  stone 
steps  and  broke  his  ankle ;  and  delay  in  having  the  ankle 
set  resulted  in  a  permanent,  but  not  a  disfiguring,  lame- 
ness. His  schooling  was  interrupted;  and  the  need  for 
his  constant  attention  to  little  Dolphy  (as  she  called  her- 
self) and  presently  to  the  still  smaller  Roy  kept  him  a 
great  deal  at  home.  The  school-inspector's  calls  were 
evaded,  or  perhaps  the  man  was  a  little  awed  by  Mrs. 
Moore's  refined  speech  and  notably  remaining  beauty; 
for  no  pressure  was  brought  to  bear  upon  the  Moores. 
Stephen  would  wander  about,  would  run  errands,  would 
sometimes  get  a  little  money  for  helping  a  tradesman  on 
Saturdays  as  an  extra  boy;  and  at  last,  when  he  was 


STEPHEN  ALONE  107 

thirteen,  went  out  to  work  for  himself.  His  father  one 
evening  was  grumbling.  "Everything  to  find,"  he  said 
untruthfully;  "and  nobody  to  help  me."  "Who  d'you 
want  to  help  you?"  asked  Stephen,  in  a  high  clear  voice. 
"You,  if  you  could !"  said  his  father.  Secretly,  to  his 
mother,  Stephen  said:  "I'm  not  going  to  stand  that!" 
and  secretly  he  answered  advertisements  and  found  a 
situation  at  six  shillings  a  week.  When  he  received  the 
letter  formally  engaging  him  he  left  it  out  upon  the  table 
beside  the  supper  which  had  been  prepared  for  his  father. 
"I'll  let  him  see !"  thought  Stephen,  trembling. 

From  that  time  Stephen  worked  during  the  day,  and 
when  he  was  sixteen  he  went  two  or  three  evenings  a 
week  to  keep  the  books  of  a  shopkeeper  in  Essex  Road. 
On  the  evenings  when  he  was  not  engaged  in  account- 
keeping  he  read  at  home — books  that  were  borrowed  from 
a  small  library  set  up  beside  a  local  chapel.  He  went  on 
with  this  even  after  his  mother  died,  when  he  changed 
his  daily  situation  for  one  in  which  he  received  a  higher 
wage;  and  his  reading  became  a  little  wider,  though  it 
was  always  limited.  One  thing  this  limited  reading  taught 
him,  and  perhaps  one  thing  only.  If  he  knew  little  he 
knew  that  little  thoroughly.  He  knew  it  almost  word 
for  word.  And  the  reading  of  a  single  book  led  him  to 
books  of  a  kindred  subject  and  a  kindred  place  in  time. 
He  was  not  taught  anything;  he  simply  learned  from  his 
reading  a  great  and  deep  love  for  literature  (as  for 
virtue)  for  its  own  sake.  He  read,  that  is,  only  what  he 
loved  to  read ;  and  that  is  why  he  learned  from  his  read- 
ing, since  if  he  tried  to  memorize  knowledge  of  something 
he  did  not  love  he  found  that  his  overworked  brain 
rejected  such  hammering.  Stephen,  with  a  chilled  feeling, 
went  back  to  his  natural  study. 

Paler  and  thinner  he  grew,  and  his  clothes  were  shabby 
and  his  boots  leaky  and  broken,  and  his  nature  grew  very 
shy  and  rather  hard.    He  found  himself  cherishing  bitter 


108  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

resentments,  and  for  his  father  a  hatred  that  was  domi- 
nated by  his  fear.  If  he  had  been  alone  he  would  have 
left  his  father;  but  he  could  not  think  of  leaving  the 
children  to  whom  so  assiduously  he  played  the  mother. 
They  were  his  first  thought;  Dorothy  his  first  love. 
Thinking  as  he  did  always  of  the  children  before  any- 
thing else  Stephen  was  certainly  estranged  from  his 
father,  and  in  some  measure  cut  off  from  any  friendship 
that  he  might  have  formed  with  others.  He  had  no 
friends  and  knew  no  boys  or  young  men  of  his  own  age 
and  tastes.  He  became  superficially  misanthropic,  by 
which  it  is  intended  to  suggest  that  his  speech  was  unen- 
thusiastic,  called  cynical,  and  to  many  persons  unpalatable. 
His  heart  remained  kind;  but  his  manner  was  brusque 
and  too  early  mature.  He  became  duller,  as  glass  that 
is  not  polished  becomes  duller.  But  he  continued  always 
to  think  first  of  others. 

So  his  life  continued  until  one  day  he  met  Mr. 
Evandine  on  the  road  between  Barnet  and  Elstree — a 
long,  winding,  hilly  road  of  great  interest  which  for  five 
miles  runs  roughly  east  and  west  and  joins  two  attractive 
northern  suburbs  of  London.  Mr.  Evandine  was  cycling, 
and  the  day  was  warm;  so  that  Stephen,  noticing  that 
the  older  man  was  very  tired,  helped  him  to  push  his 
bicycle  up  the  hill.  Mr.  Evandine  found  his  helper  taci- 
turn but  agreeable,  talked  gently  to  him,  quoted — inac- 
curately— four  familiar  lines  of  Shakespeare's  about  the 
merry  heart,  and  received  a  rather  prim  emendation  that 
set  him  privily  laughing.  He  turned  the  conversation  to 
books,  was  delighted  to  find  Stephen  intelligent,  learned 
his  name,  discovered  a  distant  relationship,  and  took  the 
young  man  home  to  tea.  For  a  time  Mr.  Evandine,  who 
caused  Stephen  frequently  to  return,  cherished  the  idea 
of  "doing  something"for  him;  but  when  he  forgot  this 
plan,  and  when  Stephen  quarrelled  with  Priscilla  upon 
a  matter  which  seemed  at  the  moment  vital,  the  acquaint- 


STEPHEN  ALONE  109 

anceship  was  abruptly  broken  off  by  the  sensitive  young 
man  who  somewhat  relentlessly  pursued  truth  and  virtue 
at  the  expense  of  humour  and  happiness.  Stephen,  in 
fact,  returned  to  his  old  guard  over  Dorothy  and  Roy, 
and  was  newly  inspired  to  study  other  and  more  difficult 
subjects  than  he  had  yet  attempted.  That  was  the  whole 
story,  in  brief,  of  Stephen's  life  up  to  the  time  of  the 
meeting  with  Minnie  Bayley,  who,  with  her  husband, 
occupied  the  floor  below  the  Moores  at  number  52  Slap- 
perton  Street.  The  story  of  his  friendship  with  Minnie 
is  a  part  of  this  tale,  and  will  appear  in  its  due  course. 


111 

So  Stephen  continued  to  sit  at  his  desk  in  the  reading- 
room,  the  hot  engrossing  atmosphere  of  the  room  stealing 
upon  him  like  sleep,  and  his  thoughts  driving  hither  and 
thither  among  ways  and  means  and  among  needs  and 
aspirations  as  if  there  were  no  safe  love  to  which  they 
might  exultingly  return  from  every  excursion.  In  vain 
did  he  concentrate  upon  printed  sentences.  They  seemed 
to  dissolve  as  his  mind  slid  off  away  from  their  meaning; 
and  from  coherent  phrases  they  sank  into  swimming 
collections  of  ridiculous  letters.  If  one  actually  looks 
long  enough  at  a  word  it  becomes  at  length  entirely  un- 
convincing, as  if  there  could  never  have  been  such  a  word, 
so  nonsensical  a  concatenation  of  letters.  Stephen  found 
his  work  thus^mpossible,  so  long  as  his  mind  was  domi- 
nated by  the  thoughts  with  which  he  struggled.  But  at 
last  he  brought  into  action  his  resolve  to  work,  and  at 
last  he  was  enabled  for  a  time  to  forget  his  troubles. 
Instead  of  Priscilla  the  Fleet;  instead  of  Minnie  the 
foundations  of  the  Metropolitan  Railway;  and  so  he 
obtained  momentary  ease.  For  an  hour  or  two  he  read 
and  noted  steadily  through  the  coughing  and  the  stupefy- 
ing air,  liking  his  work  and  feeling  well  employed.    Then 


110  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

an  impulse  seized  him  and  he  hegan  to  write  to  Priscilla. 
It  was  a  long  letter ;  but  he  had  no  other  course,  since  he 
must  either  explain  his  position  or  leave  it  puzzling. 

"My  dearest  Priscilla,"  he  wrote,  after  much  hesita- 
tion as  to  the  manner  of  his  address, — "I  can't  even  now 
persuade  myself  that  yesterday  was  a  real  day.  If  I  could 
express  what  I  went  through !  You  see  that  I'm  still  think- 
ing only  of  myself,  and  supposing  that  you  were  quite 
different.  My  dear,  that  is  not  true — even  for  a  moment. 
I  won't  say  any  more  about  it,  in  case  you  should  for  the 
smallest  time  think  it  might  be  true.  But  first  I  must  tell 
you  how  all  the  way  home  I  wanted  to  come  back  and 
say  that  I  had  been  a  most  terribly  boring  fellow,  and 
that  I  knew  it;  and  then  I  decided  not  to  come  back,  as  I 
felt  sure  you  must  know  it.  It  didn't  seem  worth  while 
to  come  back  to  accentuate  the  bad  impression.  You  see 
how  excited  I  am  when  I  write  to  you. 

"Well :  I  am  clearer  in  mind  now,  and  I  want  to  explain 
exactly  how  I  am  placed.  You  know  that  I  have  my 
father  and  Roy  and  in  particular  Dorothy  to  look  after. 
I  will  not,  at  whatever  cost  to  myself,  sacrifice  Dorothy. 
That  is  one  chief  thing.  The  other  is  that  you  have 
always  lived  in  a  way  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
me  to  manage — certainly  for  many  years.  Wait  a  min- 
ute :  I  know  you  are  ready  to  make  any  number  of 
sacrifices,  simply  because  you  are  splendid.  What  I'm 
worrying  about  is  whether  I  ought — knowing  much  more 
than  you  can  know  what  these  involve — to  let  you  make 
them.  You'll  say,  and  from  your  point  of  view  quite 
truly,  that  if  we  love  each  other  well  enough  troubles 
will  be  almost  splendid,  for  the  mere  conquering.  I  quite 
agree.  I'm  ready  for  all  sorts  of  troubles.  I've  had 
plenty,  and  I  know  that  they  can  be  borne.  But  when 
I  think  of  the  horrible  way  my  mother  had  to  work,  and 
when  I  think  of  Dorothy — who  is  a  really  wonderful 
girl — being  spoilt  by  her  routine  work  at  home,  I  then 


STEPHEN  ALONE  111 

think  of  you  meeting  the  same  difficulties.  Now  they 
have  been  accustomed  all  their  lives  to  work.  You  haven't. 
You  don't  know  what  it  means.  Forgive  me.  If  you  had 
been  a  poor  girl  (I  mean  a  girl  who  had  lived  in  poverty) 
I  should  not  hesitate.  I  should  say  to  my  father  and  to 
Roy  that  they  must  shift  for  themselves — at  least,  I  think 
I  could  do  that — and  I  should  explain  to  you  about 
Dorothy  and  get  you  to  advise.  Also  no  doubt  Dorothy 
would  have  something  to  say  on  her  own  account !  She 
generally  has.  Then  you  and  I  would  go  and  live  in  a 
half-crown  cottage  somewhere,  and  you  would  quickly 
find  out  that  life  without  society  was  impossible. 

"Am  I  writing  miserably?  I  don't  mean  to  do  that. 
I  only  see  you  unselfishly  giving  up  comfort,  and  almost 
giving  up  friends,  to  come  to  me.  I  know  what  people 
are;  and  if  they  found  you  married  to  me  and  living 
somewhere  in  two  rooms  they  would  think  that  you  were 
mad  and  that  I  was  a  cad  ever  to  have  let  you  do  it.  I 
shouldn't  mind  what  they  thought.  Would  you?  I  know 
I  am  seeming  to  underrate  your  strength.  It  is  beastly 
of  me  to  write  in  this  way.  I  want  to  make  so  horribly 
unattractive  a  picture  of  the  consequences  of  marrying 
me  that  when  you  find  them  quite  as  bad  as  you  expect 
you  won't  feel  I've  deceived  you.  Then  there  are  other 
things.  You  would  be  bound  to  entertain.  Entertainment 
is  part  of  your  world.  How  about  two  rooms  and  a 
charwoman  and  not  enough  knives  and  all  that?  Can 
you  imagine  that?  Sometimes  I  feel  in  despair  at  the 
gulf  between  us. 

"Can  you  imagine  that  in  spite  of  all  this  rigmarole  my 
one  desire  is  to  marry  you  ?  That  all  the  rest  is  so  much 
cobweb?  I  know  it  is  cobweb;  but  I  know  the  effects 
of  cobwebs.  They're  nothing  now — things  to  joke  about. 
Only,  do  you  realize  that  there's  no  escaping  from  them  ? 
If  once  you  do  realize,  and  then  feel  ready  to  marry  me, 
I  will  adore  you  (as  I  do  now,  of  course) ;  but  as  long  as 


112  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

you  think  that  you  can  put  all  difficulties  and  cobwebs 
out  of  account,  and  that  our  love  is  independent  of  meals 
and  the  paraphernalia  of  daily  life  I  shall  be  frightened 
in  case  you  wake  up  and  think  I've  deceived  you.  If  there 
is  no  deception,  and  I'm  only  being  frightened  because  I 
don't  properly  appreciate  you,  will  you  try  to  forgive  me? 
It  is  just  on  that  one  point  that  I  am  genuinely  afraid. 

"My  dearest,  I  wish  I  could  say  what  I  want  to.  I 
can't.  I  feel  as  though  I  were  trying  and  trying  all  the 
time  to  say  it  and  never  getting  near  it.  All  I  want  to 
say  really  is  that  I  love  you  and  must  marry  you :  all  that 
I  succeed  in  saying  is  that  I'm  afraid,  and  that  I'm  par- 
ticularly afraid  of  your  weakness  and  ignorance — and 
so  on.  But  if  I  didn't  know  better  I  couldn't  send  you 
such  base  words,  could  I?  It  is  only  because  I'm  sure 
of  your  love  and  courage  that  I  have  the  love  and  courage 
to  put  these  sordid  considerations  before  you.  If  I  wasn't 
sure,  I  could  never  do  it.    But  then  I  love  you. 

"It  is  for  you  to  tell  me  when  I  may  come  to  Totteridge 
again.  And  may  I  bring  Dorothy  ?  I  want  you  to  know 
her.  I  want  her  to  know  you  and  your  mother.  By  the 
way,  we've  seemed  (only  seemed)  in  talking  about  mar- 
riage to  ignore  your  mother  and  father.  They're  both 
splendid;  but  would  they  draw  the  line  at  me?  They 
must  have  had  quite  other  ideas.  They  couldn't  want 
you  to  marry  a  shabby  failure.  Would  they  draw  the 
line?  If  they  did  we  should  have  to  persuade  them, 
shouldn't  we  ?  Tell  me  when  I  may  come.  I  should  like 
you  to  see  my  home.  It  would  be  a  shock  to  you;  but 
after  that  you  would  certainly  know  once  and  for  all 
whether  you  could  bear  to  marry  me  and  afterwards  live 
with  me,  which  is  what  it  comes  to.  I  don't  know  what 
the  etiquette  is.  Will  you  ask  your  mother  if  she  could 
bring  you? 

"Forgive  me  for  everything.  With  all  my  love, 
Stephen." 


STEPHEN  ALONE  113 

Stephen  knew  as  well  as  anybody  could  possibly  do 
that  this  letter  would  not  bring  home  to  Priscilla  the 
difference  that  lay  between  them.  He  did  not  exaggerate 
the  genuine  importance  of  such  differences.  But  he  knew 
the  Evandines'  home.  He  knew  that  the  Evandines 
belonged  to  another  social  world  from  his  own — a  world 
that  he  only  entered  on  sufferance  and  by  the  Evandines' 
peculiar  courtesy.  Quite  half  the  people  whom  he  met 
at  Totteridge,  he  knew,  or  perhaps  only  imagined,  because 
sensitive  persons  easily  misconstrue  impoliteness  or  in- 
difference, would  probably  fail  to  see  him  if  they  met  in 
the  street — because  he  was  unknown,  because  he  was 
poor.  The  bitter  experience  of  rebuff  from  convention- 
ally bred  people  of  a  different  order  was  deep  in  his  heart. 
He  would  never  forgive  it  because  it  was  a  class  resent- 
ment. Personal  insult  he  never  resented;  the  cultivated 
rudeness  of  the  well-to-do  was  something  not  levelled  at 
him  as  an  individual.  It  was  the  manifestation  of  a 
particular  kind  of  prejudice,  and  to  be  felt  and  scorned 
as  the  brand  of  an  insufferable  class.  Stephen  would 
never  do  as  some  men  do,  imitate  the  class  and  ape  its 
prejudice:  the  suburbs  are  full  of  such  men.  He  would 
never  accept  any  free  assumption  of  his  personal  infe- 
riority, because  he  found  that  all  the  men  and  women 
whom  he  admired  or  respected  were  absolutely  free  from 
the  prejudice  he  so  much  loathed.  Nevertheless,  in  his 
detestation  of  the  social  push  elsewhere  so  much  culti- 
vated he  was  deliberately  stultifying  himself  and  destroy- 
ing his  opportunity  of  gaining  wider  experience  as  an 
individual ;  and  he  was  aware  that  this  point  was  one  upon 
which  Priscilla  and  he  might  perhaps  never  reach  total 
agreement.  She  had  all  her  life  been  used  to  a  kind  of 
society,  and  would  turn  naturally  to  it — would  seek  to 
preserve  her  relation  with  it.  She  would  want  tennis  and 
exhibitions  and  concerts  and  tolerably  intelligent  talk  upon 
artistic  reputations  and  current  movements.     He,  who 


114  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

either  ignored  it  or  was  ignored  by  it  (the  distinction  was 
one  simply  of  the  point  of  view),  would  continue  to  shun 
that  society,  from  dislike  quite  as  much  as  from  inability 
to  afford  to  take  any  part  in  its  functions.  According 
to  Stephen,  the  "real''  man  could  afford  to  live  outside 
all  coteries,  pushes,  parties,  congenial  gatherings,  etc., 
safe  in  the  performance  of  his  own  purpose. 

He  demanded  entire  liberty,  as  though  he  were  a  man 
of  eccentric  and  admitted  genius.  He  was  still  young 
enough  to  quote  Emerson,  and  to  believe  in  independence 
of  thought  as  the  one  way  to  salvation.  Yet  he  prided 
himself  upon  intellectual  normality,  and  kept  himself 
very  much,  as  it  is  called,  "to  himself,"  as  those  men 
sometimes  do — but  for  reasons  unlike  those  of  Stephen — 
who  have  not  very  much  personality  and  who  are  at  pains 
thus  to  conserve  it.  His  attitude  was  based  upon  a  fallacy, 
or  at  best,  so  far  as  the  modern  literary  life  is  concerned, 
upon  a  half-truth.  It  had  its  cultivation  in  his  vanity.  It 
was  not  true  that  he  was  better  off  without  friends,  with- 
out society.    He  only  believed  that  this  was  the  truth. 

Priscilla  and  Dorothy  would  both  have  put  their  finger 
upon  his  real  motive  without  any  difficulty  at  all.  Taking 
into  consideration  all  the  facts,  they  would  have  said,  in 
a  sort  of  maidenly  chorus  of  arch,  penetrating  sympathy, 
"He's  shy!" 

iv 

After  another  half-hour's  cogitation  Stephen  wrote  a 
second  letter.  It  was  very  short,  and  very  different  from 
the  one  he  had  previously  written.     It  ran : 

"Dear  Minnie, — I  will  come  in  for  a  little  while  on 
Thursday,  about  eight. — Stephen." 

When  that  was  sealed  he  put  the  two  letters  away — 
not  together,  but  in  different  pockets.  The  silvery  chime 
of  the  reading-room  clock  signalled  twelve  o'clock;  and 
with  a  sense  of  weariness  Stephen  pushed  aside  his  work, 


STEPHEN  ALONE  115 

took  his  hat,  and  went  out  to  post  his  letters  and  to  eat 
some  lunch.  His  mouth  was  twisted  in  a  rather  grim 
smile  as  he  posted  the  letters.  He  heard  them  drop 
singly  into  the  pillar-box.  Each  of  them  was  a  commit- 
ment. 


CHAPTER  VII:  ORDEALS 


PRISCILLA  said : 
"Well,  you're  not  to  be  ridiculous  any  more;  and 
mother  and  I  are  coming  to  see  you  next  Tuesday;  and 
I  think  Dorothy  is  the  jolliest  girl  I  ever  met  and  I  blame 
you  very  much  for  not  letting  us  meet  before ;  and  I  feel 
so  enormously  happy  that  I'm  sure  all  your  troubles  will 
fall  like  the  walls  of  Jericho." 

Stephen  sighed ;  but  there  was  no  doubt  at  all  that  his 
sigh  was  merely  one  of  perplexity,  and  not  one  of  doubt. 
He  found  her  enchanting,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  prevent 
himself  from  acknowledging  that. 

"Very  well,  dear,"  he  answered,  "we'll  see." 

"Come  along  then.  We'll  show  Dorothy  my  garden 
.  .  .  and  the  rose-bush." 

Priscilla  rose,  extending  her  hand,  and,  as  he  caught 
it,  permitted  Stephen  to  draw  her  to  him.  Her  face  was 
alight  with  happiness — too  naive  to  be  anything  but 
tempting  to  a  lover.  He  found  it  irresistible.  Laughter 
came  into  his  own  expression  as  he  kissed  her,  still  with 
a  thrilling  sense  of  strangely  privileged  adventure. 

"I  should  occasionally  like  you  to  say  that  you're  happy 
too,"  she  suggested. 

"I  haven't  the  gift  of  facility,"  Stephen  replied  with  a 
demureness  equal  to  her  own. 

"Felicity?"  Priscilla  inquired.  "That  sounds  almost 
more  exactly  truthful,  don't  you  think?" 

"Do  you  think  my  nature's  so  soured?"  He  could  not 
be  anything  but  thoughtful  at  her  light  words. 

"It's  just  a  little  .  .  .  what's  the  word?  .  .  .  pessi- 
mistic?" 

116 


ORDEALS  117 

He  reflected.  The  word  did  not  appeal  to  his  sense  of 
reality,  so  he  ventured  another  in  its  place. 

"Shall  we  say  'wise'  ?"  But  that,  it  seemed,  would  not 
meet  the  case. 

"Not  a  bit  wise.  I'm  the  wise  one.  Because  I've  got 
faith." 

She  challenged  him,  a  little  defiance  in  her  tone. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,"  Stephen  said, 
with  some  obstinacy.  "It's  easy  enough  to  love  you; 
there's  no  virtue  in  that.  And  in  point  of  fact  it  isn't 
you  I  worry  about." 

"Not  me?    Who  is  it  then?" 

"Not  a  woman  or  a  man;  it's  society  .  .  .  everything 
that  is  the  enemy  of  the  individual." 

Priscilla  was  struck  by  something  in  his  tone,  something 
that  seemed  almost  familiar  to  her  in  the  phrase. 

"Why,  my  dear  Stephen!"  she  said  uneasily;  "you're 
talking  like  that  old  gentleman  in  the  play.  Was  it  Doctor 
Stockman  ?"  Then  her  voice  took  on  a  more  rallying  air. 
She  remembered  a  happy  figure,  and  used  it  to  tease  him. 
"Society  ought  to  be  your  oyster :  your  tool.  Just  make 
it  your  willing  dupe.  That's  what  you've  got  to  do. 
You'll  see  .  .  ." 

Stephen  frowned  a  little. 

"My  dear,  you're  mistaking  my  lot.  That's  what  dis- 
tresses me.  It's  as  though  I  were  somebody  original.  It's 
such  an  awful  mistake."  He  did  not  want  to  chill  her, 
but  to  hint  a  line  of  safety. 

"You  are  original,"  she  insisted. 

"No."  He  still  shook  his  head.  "I'm  a  critic.  I'm 
not  creative.  If  I  could  only  somehow  burst  out  of  my 
limitations  and  achieve  something  first-hand — not  deriva- 
tive.    I'm  living  on  other  men's  minds." 

"You're  understanding  them — which  is  better  than  just 
pretending  to  be  different,  as  so  many  men  do.  You 
couldn't  criticize  truly  if  you  had  no  imagination.     My 


118  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

dear  Stephen,  mother  and  I  agree  that  imagination  is  the 
critic's  weapon.     Your  weapon." 

He  could  see  the  delicious  vivacity  with  which  she 
pronounced  these  words,  smiling  with  delighted  triumph. 

"You're  very  kind ;  but  you  overrate  mine.  I  don't 
want  to  be  solemn ;  but  I'm  really  an  analyst.  Or  rather, 
I'm  only  a  ...  a  boring  instrument.    A  sort  of  drill." 

Priscilla  laughed  outright;  but  she  felt  bound  to 
protest. 

"Stephen,  your  figures  are  very  .  .  .  unhappy.  I'm 
going  to  make  you  happy.  I'm  going  to  make  you  believe 
in  yourself."  She  beat  down  his  attempted  correction  of 
that  effort  to  interpret  his  state  of  mind.  "And  you're 
going  to  carry  on  the  good  work." 

"By  making  you  happy?" 

"What  does  it  matter?     I'm  happy  now." 

"But  if  I  made  you  unhappy?" 

Priscilla  stopped  suddenly  in  her  effort  to  challenge 
his  outlook. 

"That  would  be  an  awful  failure,"  she  said  simply. 
"But  then  you're  not  going  to.  You  could  only  make  me 
unhappy  by  deceiving  me.    And  you  won't  ever  do  that." 

Her  speech  and  her  clear  eyes  were  alike  renewed 
testimony  to  her  unquestioning  confidence  in  him.  What 
wonder  that  Stephen  was  conscious  of  a  thrill  that  was 
almost  a  pang?  With  such  confidence  behind  him  might 
not  any  man  learn  to  go  forward  unhesitatingly?  To 
Stephen  that  was  a  new  experience  and  a  rare  thought. 
He  followed  her  in  silence. 


11 

They  found  Dorothy,  miraculously  concealing  her  awe 
of  the  whole  business,  sitting  talking  to  Mrs.  Evandine. 
She  had  made  no  self-conscious  attempt  to  conceal  her 
hands,  and  the  two  other  women  had  noticed  these  with 


ORDEALS  119 

a  little  warm  feeling  of  pity  that  neither  could  have 
restrained.  Dorothy's  work-roughened  hands  stood  to 
them  as  mute  testimony  to  her  share  in  Stephen's  life. 
And  another  thing  Mrs.  Evandine  had  noticed  was  that 
the  relation  between  Dorothy  and  her  brother  was  as 
near  perfect  as  it  could  be.  She  had  feared  that  perhaps 
it  might  be,  as  in  new  surroundings  such  relationship 
sometimes  is,  rather  demonstrative.  It  was  not.  Upon 
both  sides  it  was  entirely  dignified  and  intimate.  Dorothy 
was  her  brother's  adorer;  but  Stephen  was  Dorothy's  wise 
protector.  The  recognition  made  Mrs.  Evandine  respect 
both,  and  it  slightly  relieved  one  of  her  hesitations  about 
Stephen.  She  saw  that  Dorothy  owed  much  to  him.  How 
much  she  of  course  could  not  tell,  since  she  had  no  inkling 
of  the  relationship  that  had  begun  in  Dorothy's  cradle, 
when  Stephen  had  been  nurse  and  playmate,  teacher  and 
little  boy,  separately  in  rapid  succession  or  all  at  once — 
roles  as  countless  as  those  of  Pooh-Bah,  and  not  as  well- 
salaried.  The  likeness  between  them  she  curiously  conned 
when  both  were  within  sight;  and  it  puzzled  her.  Both 
were  dark,  but  Dorothy  was  like  a  bright  little  berry, 
flashing,  merry,  and  irrepressible;  Stephen  was  grim, 
sombre,  only  occasionally  smiling,  and  never  showing  any 
of  his  sister's  electric  vivaciousness.  Both,  however, 
moved  quietly  and  swiftly,  with  an  easy  and  graceful 
carriage.  The  suddenness  of  Dorothy's  movements, 
which  for  a  time  kept  Romeo  at  a  distance,  was  in  con- 
trast to  Stephen's  more  deliberate  manner.  Yet  Mrs. 
Evandine  was  aware  that  to  know  Dorothy  was  to 
understand  Stephen  better;  and  once  Priscilla  and 
Dorothy  exchanged  a  quick  look  of  happiness  when 
Mrs.  Evandine  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  Stephen's  arm. 
It  was  the  slightest  gesture,  but  the  pride  of  both  girls 
was  touched  and  satisfied  by  its  significance.  That  glance 
would  have  been  enough  to  show  an  observer  that 
Stephen,   whatever   his   gloomy   and   distressing   faults, 


120  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

must  somewhere  have  concealed  within  him  a  subtle 
quality  to  be  appreciated  only  by  the  loving  hearts  of 
women.  And  perhaps  in  that  glance  was  first  created 
the  lasting  affection  which  grew  up  between  Dorothy  and 
Priscilla.  It  was  not  simply  that  both  had  discovered  or 
invented  a  virtue  for  Stephen;  it  was  that  each  knew 
that  the  other  cared  more  for  Stephen  than  for  herself. 
Both  loved  him;  not  possessively  or  selfishly,  but  with  a 
sublime  imagination  that,  if  he  had  known  it,  would  have 
made  the  young  man  fly  speedily  for  shame  from  that 
embarrassing  scene.  But  he,  talking  to  Mrs.  Evandine, 
and  engaged  in  liking  her,  was  blissfully  unconscious  of 
the  whole  affair.  His  awkwardness,  the  sense  that  the 
Evandines  were  bound  to  regard  him  as  a  scheming  inter- 
loper, an  outsider  who  had  plunged  for  once  into  the  part 
of  adventurer,  was  gradually  giving  way  to  a  wiser  sense 
of  their  extreme  kindness.  He  even  did  not  dread  his 
approaching  talk  with  Mr.  Evandine,  which  both  Priscilla 
and  he  had  agreed  should  be  concluded  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Dorothy  has  been  telling  me  about  your  researches 
into  the  history  of  the  Fleet  River,"  Mrs.  Evandine  said. 
"You  must  tell  my  husband  about  them.  That  is  a  thing 
he'd  be  very  interested  to  hear  about." 

"I've  also  been  telling  Mrs.  Evandine  about  the  old 
man,"  remarked  Dorothy. 

"I  hope  not!"  muttered  Stephen  to  himself,  with  a  look 
of  horror. 

"About  his  love  of  Islington."  The  explanation  was 
timely.  "Dorothy's  been  describing  a  shop  where  you 
used  to  buy  jumbles  for  her." 

"There  was  a  splendid  shop  where  he  used  to  get  me 
toffee-apples.  Apples  stuck  on  pieces  of  firewood  and 
covered  with  toffee.  They  were  splendid.  One  never 
sees  them  now." 

They  all  laughed  at  her  obvious  regret  that  the  trade 
in  toffee-apples  should  have  declined. 


ORDEALS  121 

"They  were  very  green  apples,"  Stephen  said  reflec- 
tively. "I  don't  think  they  could  have  been  so  very  good 
for  you.  Dorothy  and  1  used  to  walk  down  St.  John 
Street  Road  and  through  some  of  the  old  streets  there 
— where  the  old  wells  used  to  be  .  .  .  Sadler's  Wells 
and  the  old  Islington  Wells,  that  were  renamed  ...  to 
get  these  toffee-apples  in  a  back  street.  I'm  afraid 
Dorothy  knew  the  way  there  almost  too  well." 

"I  can  still  see  the  window.  And  the  place  in  Exmouth 
Street  where  you  used  to  go  to  get  eels  for  the  old  man's 
supper.  .  .  ."  There  was  a  sort  of  hush  at  this  particular 
memory.  Then  Dorothy  went  on,  still  blithely,  in  spite 
of  the  silence:  "Stephen  had  to  cook  the  horrid  things. 
Did  you  know  that  he  was  a  splendid  cook?" 

"I  wish  I  was,"  Priscilla  said,  ruefully. 

"It's  a  useful  thing  in  a  man."  Dorothy's  tact  was 
for  a  moment  splendid.  She  included  them  all  in  a  benign 
and  infectious  smile.  Then,  impulsively,  she  fell  earth- 
ward in  her  eagerness  to  be  of  use  to  her  new  friend. 
"I'll  teach  you  ...  if  your  mother  .  .  .  Really,  I'm  a 
good  cook  .  .  .  Stephen  will  testify." 

Mrs.  Evandine  could  not  restrain  her  smile;  but  she 
was  not  embarrassed,  whereas  Priscilla  was  filled  with 
sudden  consternation  at  her  own  ignorance.  She  had 
her  first  stab  of  understanding  of  Stephen's  doubt.  This 
and  the  glimpse  of  Dorothy's  work-worn  hands  had  their 
effect  upon  her.  She  was  struck  hard.  The  few  things 
Dorothy  had  said  had  revealed  to  her  a  life  that  really 
was  quite  different  from  her  own.  She  recalled  Stephen's 
remark  about  the  consequence  of  a  visit  to  his  home.  Her 
rather  vague  determinations  to  work  for  him  had  not 
hitherto  touched  the  fact  of  working.  But  she  now  un- 
derstood better.  She  no  longer  felt  that  his  caution  had 
been  ridiculous.  She  could  and  would  bear  whatever 
marriage  with  him  might  involve.  If  she  had  been 
brought  up  in  one  way  there  was  all  the  more  reason  why 


122  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

she  should  learn  gladly  to  adapt  herself  to  another  way 
of  living.  Nevertheless,  she  had  been  unwillingly  con- 
scious of  a  momentary  chilled  shame. 


in 

"You  were  going  to  show  me  your  garden,"  Dorothy 
said. 

"You'd  really  like  to  see  it?     Shall  we  go  now?" 

The  two  girls  walked  away  from  the  others  and  out 
across  the  sunlit  lawn  into  a  path  beyond.  They  walked 
slowly  together  in  perfect  harmony,  and  Priscilla,  observ- 
ing Romeo  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  he  was  engaged 
in  secret  plans  to  capture  a  thrush  (a  capture  which 
Romeo  had  never,  in  spite  of  all  pains,  succeeded  in 
making),  began  to  tell  the  story  of  his  remarkable  char- 
acter.    She  found  in  Dorothy  an  eager  listener. 

"But  how  splendid !"  Dorothy  exclaimed.  "He  looks 
very  intelligent.  He's  got  such  globular  eyes.  We've 
never  had  a  cat.  We  couldn't,  you  know;  because  we 
live  upstairs,  and  the  downstairs  people  are  so  unpleasant 
unless  they  like  you  and  so  horribly  inquisitive  if  they 
do ;  and  the  poor  thing  could  only  walk  on  the  tiles.  It's 
different  here.  You  know,  I've  never  seen  a  house  like 
this  before,  or  such  a  garden.  It's  like  walking  about  in 
Waterlow  Park,  only  not  so  crowded.  I  hope  you  don't 
mind  my  speaking  about  it  as  a  wonder.  I  expect  it's 
very  ill-bred  of  me;  but  then  you  see  it's  all  so  un- 
familiar." 

"Does  it,  then,  make  you  afraid  about  me?  I  mean, 
about  my  marrying  Stephen?"  asked  Priscilla  a  little 
wistfully.  "He  was  afraid ;  and  I  see  that  there's  some- 
how a  great  difference  .  .  .  I'm  just  a  little  nervous  in 
case  I  can't  do  properly  what  .  .  .  But  I  can  learn.  I 
don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  learn." 

For  a  moment  Dorothy  hesitated.     It  was  wonderful 


ORDEALS  123 

to  her  to  see  the  proud  modesty  of  this  lovely  girl  for 
whom  she  was  so  quickly  feeling  a  motherly  pity.  She 
bent  her  wise  little  head  before  she  answered.    At  length : 

''If  I  were  you  I  shouldn't  worry.  I  think  it's  just 
splendid  of  you  to  marry  him;  and  so  does  he.  Only 
you'd  never  think  it!  That's  his  nature;  as  you  must 
know.  Besides,  if  you  mean  that  you  think  Stephen's 
going  to  live  in  lodgings  all  his  life,  you've  let  him  depress 
you.  It's  only  his  fun.  That  man  .  .  ."  she  paused. 
"Years  hence  Stephen  will  be  grumbling  because  he  can't 
live  on  a  thousand  a  year.  If  you'd  seen  him  ten  years 
ago !  Sitting  mending  holes  in  his  trousers  and  cobbling 
his  boots,  and  making  toys  for  Roy.  And  grum- 
bling .  .  ." 

Priscilla  was  smiling  with  relief. 

"And  are  you  really  glad?"  she  ventured  to  ask. 
Dorothy  looked  carefully  round. 

"I  think  it's  wonderful,"  she  declared.  "I'm  awfully 
glad,  because  it's  what  I've  always  longed  for."  Then, 
very  quickly,  she  added :  "Don't  let  Stephen  know  I 
said  it;  but  I'd  give  all  I've  got — which  isn't  much — 
to  see  the  old  man's  face  when  he  hears  the  news!  If 
he  isn't  absolutely  struck  dumb  I  shall  be  amazed.  You 
see,  he  thought  Stephen  was  safe  to  keep  him  all  his 
days!" 

"Oh,  who  is  the  old  man?"  begged  Priscilla.  "Is  he 
your  father?" 

"He's  one  of  the  worst !"  said  Dorothy  solemnly. 

Awed,  Priscilla  could  ask  no  more.  She  imagined 
something  almost  unimaginably  awful. 


IV 

"The  old  man,"  proceeded  Dorothy,  after  an  interested 
pause.  ".  .  .  Oh,  isn't  that  a  beautiful  rose!  Though 
I  prefer  the  red  ones,  just  as  Stephen  does.    The  old  man 


124  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

is  one  of  those  marvellous  people  who  simply  happen. 
You  and  I,  and  Stephen,  and  so  on,  have  to  live.  But  the 
old  man's  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  or  the  birds  of  the  air. 
Has  Stephen  never  told  you  about  him  ?  Well,  of  course 
he  wouldn't !  You  know,  nice  girls  never  say  unkind 
things,  and  as  I  say  unkind  things  I  can't  be  a  nice  girl 
— that's  a  syllo-something.  But  I  must  tell  you,  that  the 
old  man  is  simply  the  most  marvellous  impostor  you  ever 
dreamt  of.  He's  our  father.  And  if  you  want  to  know 
anything  about  our  family  you  must  come  to  me.  It's 
almost  extraordinary  how  much  I  know.  If  you  ask 
Stephen  you  won't  get  the  truth  though;  because  he's 
constitutionally  incapable  of  telling  the  truth." 

"Oh!"  cried  Priscilla. 

"It's  true.  Stephen's  a  gentleman.  Now  a  girl  isn't 
bound  to  be  a  gentleman,  so  she  can  tell  the  truth." 

"Is  that  a  sign  of  being  a  gentleman?  I've  always 
wondered  what  the  test  was." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  even  then  apply  it  too  .  .  .  what's 
that  funny  word  all  the  critics  use — or  misuse,  as  Stephen 
says?  .  .  .  too  matriculously.  They  wouldn't  stand  it. 
However,  I  can  tell  all  about  Stephen.  Or  perhaps  not 
quite  all;  though  a  week  ago" — she  stopped  with  rueful 
hesitation — "I  should  have  insisted  that  I  knew  every- 
thing. And  I  know  the  old  man  through  and  through. 
And  Roy!" 

"Tell  me  about  Roy,"  begged  Priscilla.  "And  I  should 
love  to  hear  about  the  .  .  .  about  .  .  ." 

"You  haven't  heard  the  last  of  Roy,"  said  Dorothy. 
"Stephen  doesn't  realize  about  Roy,  because  there's  quite 
a  good  deal  that  is  outside  his  nature.  I  mean,  there  are 
things  in  Roy  that  he  wouldn't  like  to  admit  are  there. 
Things  that  even  I  don't  know  well  enough  to  express — 
only  to  feel,  and  recognize.  Do  you  know  that  feeling? 
— that  you  can  see  things  and  people  and  not  know  how 
to  describe  them.  .  .  .    It's  an  uncanny  thing,  that  makes 


ORDEALS  125 

you  feel  awfully  helpless  when  you  think  about  it.  I  don't 
think  Stephen  can  feel  quite  that  way.  I  think  that  he 
simply  doesn't  know  anything  he  can't  express.  It  just 
doesn't  exist  for  him.  Do  you  feel  that?  Besides  .  .  . 
he's  a  sentimentalist." 

"It's  all  very  interesting;  and  I  know  what  you  mean 
about  not  being  able  to  say  what  you  think.  .  .  .  But 
about  sentimentality:  do  you  mean  Roy?  Or  Stephen?" 
asked  Priscilla.    "I  shouldn't  have  thought  Stephen  .  .  ." 

Dorothy  turned  round  eyes  upon  her. 

"Not  Roy  .  .  .  Gracious!  He's  not  a  sentimentalist. 
He's  rather  like  the  old  man  in  some  ways.  But  he's 
afraid  of  Stephen,  and  very  fond  of  him.  When  you  live 
with  Stephen  you  can't  help  being  fond  of  him.  That's 
the  marvellous  thing  about  the  old  man.  He  hates 
Stephen.  Simply  hates  him.  And  if  Roy  didn't  love 
Stephen  he'd  be  quite  ...  in  a  way  I  think  almost — not 
wicked,  you  know,  nor  weak;  but  somehow  mean.  I 
think  I  don't  so  much  object  to  wickedness  or  weakness. 
But  meanness  is  simply  loathsome — sort  of  unworthy  and 
unmanly,  without  doing  anything  specially  wrong.  If 
you  knew  Roy  you'd  see  what  I  mean.  .  .  .  But  I'm 
boring  you,  and  talking  a  terrible  lot." 

"Please  go  on !    Tell  me  about  your  father." 

"No,  I'd  rather  not,  if  you  don't  mind.  Because  I 
feel  as  though  I'd  been  gabbling;  and  I  don't  really 
gabble.  The  only  reason  I've  been  doing  it  is  that  .  .  . 
I'm  rather  excited,  and  I  suppose  that  makes  me  talk 
quickly.  It  does  some  people.  And  then  I  like  you  very 
much  and  I've  never  had  a  girl  friend." 

"I've  never  had  a  real  one  either;  though  I  haven't 
so  much  felt  the  need  because  I've  had  mother." 

Somehow  their  talk  had  brought  them  very  close 
together  in  sympathy ;  as  though  they  might  have  learned 
the  alphabet  of  each  other's  spiritual  language,  which  is 
the  necessary  preliminary  to  all  friendship.     It  was  not 


126  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

what  Dorothy  had  said  so  much  as  what  she  had  not  said 
that  gave  Priscilla  so  strong  a  sense  of  her  individuality ; 
and  to  Dorothy  it  was  less  what  Priscilla  had  said  than 
what  she  had  interestedly  allowed  to  be  said  that  made 
her  seem  so  exceedingly  honest  and  candid.  Dorothy  was 
very  quick  in  her  sympathies  and  her  antipathies ;  she  read 
personality  very  quickly  and  on  the  whole  very  surely; 
and  in  this  case  her  intuitions  were — if  not  especially 
profound — at  least  very  acute  and  not  finally  to  be  found 
very  far  from  the  truth.  One  thing  that  moved  her 
greatly  was  the  thought  that  she  could  talk  so  naturally, 
in  spite  of  all  differences  of  feeling  and  experience,  to  the 
girl  who  was  to  be  Stephen's  wife.  When  she  thought 
of  it  the  fact  brought  tears  of  relief  to  her  bright  eyes. 
How  much  she  gained  by  Stephen's  success  in  love! 

They  stood  and  looked  back  along  the  path  they  had 
traversed.  It  lay  beside  a  low  wall,  upon  the  other  side 
of  which  was  the  Dutch  garden.  Far  away,  still  within 
view  but  seemingly  isolated  by  the  exaggerated  distance, 
they  could  see  Mrs.  Evandine  talking  earnestly  to 
Stephen.  In  the  middle  ground  sat  Romeo.  Right 
along  the  path,  near  the  house,  they  could  distinguish 
three  further  figures  coming  towards  them — Mr.  Evan- 
dine,  David,  and  Hilary  Badoureau. 

"D'you  see?"  Priscilla  said,  with  a  sudden  charming 
breathlessness.  "The  smaller  dark  young"  man  is  David 
— my  brother;  the  tall  fair  one  is  a  friend  of  ours,  Mr. 
Badoureau.  And  the  third  is  father.  I  wonder  what 
they've  all  come  out  for!  But  of  course  it's  to  see 
you!" 

"Me  ?"  asked  Dorothy,  like  a  little  bird,  ever  so  slightly 
fluttered.     "How  kind  of  them." 

"They're  all  nice  men."  Priscilla  was  laughing  rather 
nervously.  "You'll  be  amused  at  them."  But  to  her- 
self all  the  time  she  was  speaking  Priscilla  had  been 
whispering,  "Oh,  I  hope  they  won't  quarrel.  .  .  .  Oh, 


ORDEALS  127 

mother,  don't  let  them  quarrel !"  For  she  knew  that  the 
meeting  on  that  afternoon  was  the  first  misfortune  that 
had  befallen  her  since  Stephen  had  returned. 


And  indeed  there  was  a  constraint  among  the  men  as 
they  met.  They  stood  almost  with  conscious  sheepish- 
ness  before  Mrs.  Evandine — Mr.  Evandine  with  an  air 
of  preciousness  which  only  discomfort  could  produce; 
Stephen  square,  blunt,  and  rather  shabby  in  his  blue  serge 
suit;  David  slim  and  graceful  in  strict  morning  dress  such 
as  he  often  wore  at  the  office;  and  Hilary  very  tall  and 
fair,  looking  almost  like  a  splendid  guardsman  in  mufti 
as  he  lounged  in  his  so  obviously  perfect-fitting  tweeds. 
Stephen  tried  to  crush  back  his  feeling  of  animosity 
towards  Hilary;  but  Hilary's  rather  elaborate  indiffer- 
ence to  him  was  almost  offensive,  and  their  greeting  was 
brief.  Moreover  Hilary  was  without  doubt  rude  in  ignor- 
ing at  least  one  speech  of  Stephen's,  made  with  a  great 
effort  and  with  definitely  pacific  intention.  Instead  of 
answering  it  he  looked  at  Stephen  with  a  blank  face 
and  said  something  to  Mrs.  Evandine.  Stephen's  face 
whitened,  and  he  turned  away.  Presently  he  and  Mr. 
Evandine  fell  into  a  discussion  of  the  work  of  a  half- 
forgotten  poet,  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes,  and  became 
oblivious  of  the  further  conversation.  They  even  turned 
quite  away  from  the  others,  and  Mr.  Evandine,  well 
pleased  to  make  Stephen  talk,  sauntered  beside  him  with 
a  gravely  inclined  head,  irresistibly  attracted  and  stimu- 
lated by  fresh  opinions  with  which  he  did  not  wholly 
agree.  Hilary  took  the  opportunity  to  say  quickly  to 
David  :  "I  say,  what's  that  chap  doing  here?"  To  which 
David  answered  with  a  curtness  that  startled  him :  "You'd 
better  ask  him  yourself."  There  could  be  no  satisfaction 
for  Hilary  now  until  he  had  himself  investigated  the  truth. 


128  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

He  spent  a  bewildered  five  minutes,  answering  at  random 
to  Mrs.  Evandine,  until  Priscilla  came  towards  them 
in  Dorothy's  company.  To  his  jealous  apprehensiveness 
it  seemed  that  her  colour  deepened  slightly  as  she  joined 
the  group;  but  she  did  not  seem  to  be  embarrassed  at 
seeing  him.  Was  that  a  good  sign  or  a  bad  one?  Pres- 
ently he  noticed  how  often  her  glance  strayed  to  the  two 
wandering  figures  on  the  tennis  lawn.  "That  fellow!" 
he  thought  savagely,  with  a  scathing  sense  of  physical 
superiority  to  this  limping  man  in  the  shabby  suit  who 
could  interest  Mr.  Evandine. 

"Mr.  Evandine,"  Stephen  was  at  that  moment  saying 
as  he  walked  with  his  future  father-in-law  at  a  distance 
from  the  others,  "Priscilla  says  that  you  know  what  I 
want  to  ask.  I  feel  a  horrible  knave  in  offering  myself, 
so  manifestly  incapable  of  giving  her  what  she's  used  to; 
but  I'm  willing  to  tell  you  all  about  myself  and  to  abide 
by  your  decision " 

"If  it's  favourable?"  suggested  Mr.  Evandine,  with 
a  dry  smile.  The  side  look  which  he  cast  behind  his 
circular  rimless  spectacles  was  one  of  the  utmost  shrewd- 
ness, which  his  companion  somehow  missed. 

"That's  just  the  question,"  said  Stephen,  not  insensible 
to  Mr.  Evandine's  tone  and  the  humorous  perception 
which  it  indicated.  "The  truth  is,  I  can't  take  an  absolute 
'No,'  though  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  expect  anything  but 
a  most  hesitating  half-consent." 

"Yiss,  yiss,"  said  Mr.  Evandine,  glancing  uneasily 
about,  and  blinking  a  little.  "I'll  tell  you  exactly  how 
it  strikes  me,  my  boy.  You  mustn't  think  me  unfriendly. 
In  fact,  I'm  sure  you  don't;  and  that  this  is  a  thing  we 
can  talk  of  quite  .  .  .  reasonably.  Eh,  eh?  If  I  were 
a  wholly  wise  man  I  might  perhaps  insist  on  saying  'No.' 
As  you  know,  we  had  no  definite  wish  for  Priscilla ;  and 
to  you  personally  I  have  nothing  but  kind  feelings.  You 
believe  me  ?    But  it's  quite  true  that  in  some  ways  I  think 


ORDEALS  129 

it  a  most  unwise  arrangement — at  least,  proposal.  You 
won't  accept  .  .  .  You  see,  my  boy,  I  don't  understand 
how  you  propose  to  live.  You  don't  see  your  way,  I 
understand,  to  accept  any  pecuniary  help." 

"No,"  Stephen  answered  him.  "I  think  Priscilla  would 
rather  I  didn't.  And  I  couldn't  bear  it  myself,  even  if 
she  wanted  it.  I  should  be  ashamed.  It  would  create  a 
false  position  at  once." 

"I  think  you're  right.     And  yet,  you  see  .  .  ." 

"I  can  and  will  make  a  way  for  myself.  She  feels  that. 
It's  a  part  of  her  great  .  .  .  well,  her  bravery.  But  all 
the  same  I'm  resolved  to  make  a  way." 

"I'm  sure  you  can."  Mr.  Evandine's  manner  was 
entirely  kind.  His  sympathy  was  clear.  But  so  also  was 
his  hesitant  desire  to  say  another  thing,  to  urge  his  real 
objection.  "Only  slowly,  though.  And  in  the  mean 
time?" 

"I've  tried  to  persuade  Priscilla  from  taking  that 
immediate  risk.     But  she's  a  very  game  girl." 

"Eh,  eh?    Very  what?"  begged  Mr.  Evandine. 

"Plucky.  .  .  .     And  I  think  it  will  do  her  good." 

"Rilly."  Mr.  Evandine  thought  Stephen  rather  assured 
in  his  disposal  of  Priscilla.  It  made  him  ever  so  slightly 
frown  and  lower  his  head,  so  that  Stephen  could  see  his 
eyes  over  his  rimless  spectacles.  "However,  Priscilla  is 
determined;  and  I  find  her  mother  is  entirely  ...  eh 
...  on  Priscilla's  side." 

"She's  splendid !"  burst  gratefully  from  Stephen.  "I 
feel  abject  before  both  of  them — ashamed  to  come  offer- 
ing myself  so  brazenly  when  I  know  so  well  .  .  ." 

"The  modern  woman  is  curiously  adventurous.  .  .  . 
Curiously.  Curiously.  Yiss,  yiss.  But,  Stephen,  I 
understand  my  wife  to  say  that  you  did  not  share  this 
.  .  .  this  curious  desire  to  take  risks.  I  almost  hoped 
to  find  you — from  what  she  said — something  of  a  remark- 
able ally." 


130  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Stephen  laughed  excitedly,  driven  quite  out  of  his 
gravity  by  a  sense  of  the  diplomatic  situation.  The  appeal 
brought  out  very  frankly  the  point  which  really  had 
bolstered  up  his  courage  and  undermined  his  self- 
distrust. 

"Mr.  Evandine,  if  I  may  be  quite  frank.  I  want  to 
marry  Priscilla.  Priscilla  wants  to  take  risks.  To  defy 
her  would  be  to  make  her  less  happy  and  sure  of  me — to 
make  her  think  less  of  me.  That's  a  risk  that  to  me  out- 
weighs all  the  others.  The  other  risks  are  there ;  but  I've 
come  to  an  understanding  with  Priscilla  and  I  won't  go 
back  on  it — on  her — on  myself.  If  I  were  alone  I  should 
not  mind  risk.  I'm  not,  on  my  own  account,  a  coward. 
The  thing  that  holds  me  back  is  a  partly  timid,  partly 
genuine  sense  of  duty  to  others.  The  difficulty  arises,  and 
it's  very,  very  anxious.  But  with  Mrs.  Evandine's  help 
I  think  I  can  arrange.  And  I'm  so  sure  of  Priscilla's 
character  that  I'm  ready  to  be  quite  sure  that  she'll  bear 
the  strain.  I  do  sometimes  feel  qualms — when  I'm  alone 
and  when  I'm  tired.  I  can't  help  it.  It  seems  to  me  only 
natural.  But  it  is  for  you  to  say  whether  you  can  bear 
to  let  me  take  the  risk  with  her." 

Mr.  Evandine  here  uttered  a  profound  truth,  of  whose 
profundity  he  was  distinctly  and  unwillingly  aware.  His 
voice  lost  its  fastidious,  high-pitched,  thin  pipe;  and  sank 
once  to  a  lower  note  and  a  note  of  intimacy  which  Stephen 
had  never  once  before  heard  in  all  their  talks. 

"Stephen,  I've  no  voice  in  the  matter.  I'm  helpless  in 
their  hands.  I  only  beg  that  if  you  find  things  going 
badly — and  I  don't  think  you  will — you'll  let  me  help 
you  just  out  of  your  difficulty.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?"  He  had  lost  his  nervousness;  he  was  ready  to 
take  Stephen  upon  level  terms,  as  a  man.  He  was  even 
rather  moved,  a  danger  against  which  he  had  all  the  time 
been  fighting,  because  he  knew  that  it  might  make  them 
uncomfortable.     They  could  not  shake  hands;  but  they 


ORDEALS         .  131 ; 

did  for  one  moment  stand  together  in  silence  to  mark 
their  mutual  respect. 

With  every  sign  of  relief,  confidence,  and  liking,  the 
two  men  wandered  back  to  the  larger  group.  It  was 
then  that  Hilary  was  sure  of  Priscilla's  tremulous  smile 
of  love  at  Stephen;  and  his  face  was  crimsoned  with  a 
surge  of  blind  anger.  Upon  Stephen's  cheek  was  another 
flush;  but  it  was  one  of  surprised  gladness  such  as  he 
had  never  known,  because  he  had  become  once  more 
conscious  of  Priscilla's  beauty  and  of  his  unbelievable 
good  fortune.  He  had  made,  in  fact,  another  friend ;  so 
that  in  this  family  he  now  had  nothing  but  happiness. 
The  sense  of  it  almost  from  sheer  wonder  made  him 
laugh;  and  for  a  moment  his  voice  thrilled  as  he  spoke 
to  Mrs.  Evandine. 

"You're  quite  content,  Stephen  ?"  she  gently  asked,  too 
low  to  be  overheard. 

"Content!"  he  said  impetuously.  "But  Mrs.  Evandine 
— to  you  I'm  .  .  ." 

Hilary  was  amazed  at  the  voices  around  him.  His 
mind  took  in  only  two  names — Stephen,  Dorothy.  That 
meant  that  the  man  was  accepted  here  as  a  friend.  This 
man!  His  eye  contemptuously  swept  Stephen,  finding 
him  unmistakably  plebeian,  arrogant,  inferior.  .  .  .  Yet 
in  every  face,  swiftly  interrogated,  he  read  the  certainty 
that  the  Evandines,  for  some  quality  or  attribute  over- 
looked or  ignored,  were  unconscious  of  the  signs  of 
inferiority  which  to  himself  were  only  too  plain.  Could 
it  be  that  they  did  not  see  the  fellow's  lack  of  breeding? 
Was  his  sense  of  it  only  morbidly  acute,  so  that  he  exag- 
gerated the  clear  signs  beyond  their  sufficient  meaning? 
How  extraordinary  that  he  had  never  once  anticipated 
what  had  actually  come  to  pass.  He  had  never  once 
supposed  that  he  could  have  a  rival.  And  the  question 
now  arose — urgently  demanding  a  clear  reply — was  it 
yet  too  late? 


132  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 


VI 

During  tea  Hilary  watched  Stephen  with  a  heatedly- 
cool  deliberate  scrutiny.  Partly  his  expression  was  one 
of  restrained  contempt,  partly  of  unwilling  curiosity.  He 
watched  every  passing  shadow  upon  the  hostile  face,  and 
was  surprised  to  find  how  much  and  how  quickly  it 
changed.  He  found  himself  forced  into  an  unwilling 
admiration :  he  could  not  have  thought  that  a  face  so 
apparently  set  should  be  capable  of  showing  so  great  a 
variety  of  fleeting  moods.  He  saw  that  Stephen,  for  all 
his  gravely  impassive  bearing,  unostentatiously  followed 
the  conversation  with  incessant  keenness;  that  he  was 
never  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  was  said  to  himself 
or  to  others.  Hilary  wondered  of  what  that  comprehen- 
sion of  all  that  was  going  on  reminded  him.  He  thought 
of  adjustment  .  .  .  gear  .  .  .  timing  ...  of  that  par- 
ticular sensation  one  has  when  words  slip  inevitably  into 
their  places  in  exquisite  verse  ...  of  some  sort  of  sure- 
ness  in  the  painter's  art.  Not  there  did  he  find  his  illus- 
tration. It  was  something,  he  felt,  to  do  with  a  motor 
.  .  .  gear  .  .  .  speed.  .  .  .  That  was  it!  He  had  a 
speedometer  in  front  of  him  as  he  drove  his  car;  and 
that  fascinating  hand  that  marked  every  smallest  varia- 
tion of  speed  was  the  thing  he  was  recalling.  It  had  been 
his  marvel  and  his  delight  ever  since  he  had  bought  the 
car.  It  had  impressed  him  with  its  uncanny  precision, 
its  extraordinary  superhuman  sense  of  the  vagaries  of 
pace,  more  wonderful  than  power  or  the  registration  of 
time.  He  began  to  recognize  that  this  man's  brain,  or 
some  inexplicable  part  of  his  nature,  was  as  sensitively 
trained  to  register  what  was  going  on  as  was  the  hand 
of  the  speedometer.  With  gathering  respect  grew  fear. 
With  fear,  the  ignorant  and  now  discredited  contempt 
was  wholly  driven  out  by  hatred.  He  knew  that  he  hated 
Stephen — no  longer  disdaining  him,  or  in  any  way  rating 


ORDEALS  133 

low  his  person  or  his  personality,  but  recognizing  the 
latter  as  strong  enough  for  hatred,  as  a  dire  malign  force 
which  he  must  suddenly  with  all  his  energy  combat. 

All  this  Hilary  discovered  within  himself — not  quite 
consciously,  but  dimly  and  involuntarily.  But  as  yet  he 
had  only  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  a  dread.  He  felt  that 
he  must  go  very  carefully  .  .  .  very  carefully.  The 
word  "careful"  was  often  between  his  teeth,  tightly 
clenched.  He  must  be  careful  .  .  .  work  carefully  .  .  . 
not  give  the  show  away.  This  was  a  situation  that 
required  handling  with  the  most  delicate  care.  ...  It 
was  a  matter  demanding  extraordinary  caution.  Because 
only  himself  could  penetrate  to  the  full  enormity  of  the 
danger,  to  the  dark  forest  of  this  unreadable  rival's  secret 
heart. 

Yet  he  found  himself  later  fiercely  saying  to  Priscilla, 
his  voice,  and  indeed  his  whole  body,  vehemently  trem- 
bling, and  quite  out  of  his  control : 

"This  fellow  .  .  .  Priscilla  .  .  .  What  does  it  all 
mean?     He's  not  possible.     He's  .  .  .     What " 

Quite  white,  but  now  very  determined  and  in  one  sense 
thankful  that  the  ordeal  was  past,  Priscilla  tried  by  will 
to  steady  her  voice. 

"Only  .  .  .  Hilary  .  .  .  We  love  each  other.  I'm 
going  to  marry  him." 

"Oh,  my  God!  Oh,  my  God!"  cried  Hilary,  horror 
in  his  face,  his  lips  drawn  back  from  his  teeth,  his  blue 
eyes  dark  with  the  bitter  blow.  "What  a  mess  you've 
made  of  it,  Priscilla !  What  a  ghastly  mess !  You  must 
be  mad !" 

He  turned  away  and  left  her  standing  there. 


CHAPTER  VIII:  TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES 


IT  was  a  merry  party  that  gathered  in  Slapperton  Street 
when  Priscilla  and  her  mother  paid  their  first  visit, 
for  David  had  been  invited  and  Dorothy  and  Stephen 
were  in  a  state  of  high  spirits  compounded  of  joy  and 
anxiety  for  the  success  of  their  feast.  The  others  could 
never  know  of  Dorothy's  frantic  purchase  of  crockery 
that  matched  and  looked  delicate,  nor  of  Stephen's  work 
during  the  morning  in  getting  appropriate  food-stuffs 
and  other  details  of  the  meal.  Dorothy,  breathless  with 
excitement  and  preparation,  said  that  it  all  reminded  her 
of  one  of  the  schoolboy  scrambles  in  Talbot  Baines  Reed's 
incomparable  school  stories.  It  had  always  been  the  same 
with  the  Moores,  from  the  time  that  they  ate  their  meals 
off  odd  plates  laid  upon  a  tablecloth  of  old  newspaper : 
they  had  never  had  enough  crockery  that  matched,  or  an 
uncracked  dish  for  the  jam,  or  quite  enough  knives  that 
were  steady  in  their  handles.  They  noticed,  and  even 
deplored,  the  imperfections  of  their  cutlery  and  various 
services ;  but  the  money  which  would  have  made  all  good 
was  needed  for  other  things,  and  besides  when  one  is  used 
to  incongruous  dishes  and  cups  and  saucers  there  is  a 
strange  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from  whatever  is  irreg- 
ular. It  is  as  though  the  inconveniences  of  a  picnic  were 
perpetuated  and  exalted  into  everyday  phenomena. 

They  had  lettuce,  obtained  by  Stephen  after  great 
labour,  and  properly  washed  (which,  as  David  court- 
eously pointed  out,  was  a  unique  experience),  and  they 
had  strawberry  jam  newly  made  by  Dorothy,  and  fresh 
strawberries  and  cream,  and  Dorothy's  own  potted  meat 

134 


TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES  135 

(which  was  preserved  in  little  pots  as  if  it  had  been  the 
real  professional  stuff)  ;  and  the  room  was  rich  with 
flowers,  and  bright  and  polished  beyond  any  previous 
experience  recalled  by  Stephen  or  Dorothy  or,  for  that 
matter,  supposing  that  furniture  has  any  kind  of  recol- 
lection beyond  the  faint  retained  odours  of  its  origin  and 
cleanings,  by  the  pictures  and  chairs  and  tables  them- 
selves. And  Dorothy  sat  smiling  at  the  table  in  a  marvel- 
lous new  muslin  dress  with  a  palest  cream  ground  upon 
which  were  palest  blue  flowers  intersprigged  with  small 
green  incidents  that  might  have  been  meant  for  little 
leaves  or  pieces  of  inconspicuous  fern.  Opposite  to  her 
sat  Priscilla,  whose  frock  was  also  a  pale  cream,  but  quite 
plain,  and  made  apparently  of  casement  cloth,  very  sim- 
ply cut.  Mrs.  Evandine  wore  her  fawn-coloured  dress, 
because  it  was  the  nicest  and  most  comfortable  she  had. 
Against  these  three  graces  what  can  be  said  of  the  duller 
clothes  of  the  young  men?  It  would  be  merely  insulting 
to  remark  that  they  wore  clean  collars  and  clean  shirts. 

The  trouble  was,  as  Dorothy  once,  in  the  height  of  her 
pleasure,  frowningly  recognized,  that  while  of  course  one 
didn't  want  the  Evandines  to  think  that  this  was  a  spe- 
cially manufactured  feast  it  was  none  the  less  true  that 
it  might  give  Priscilla  a  quite  wrong  idea  of  them.  For 
herself ,  Dorothy  didn't  know  whence  the  money  had  come 
or  was  coming  for  all  these  crocks  and  knives  and  lovely 
dishes  and  flowers  .  .  .  and  the  smallest  and  most  charm- 
ing of  rings  that  sat  by  itself  in  a  furry  box  in  Stephen's 
waistcoat  pocket — where  his  finger  was  always  uncon- 
sciously and  uncontrollably  straying.  But  that  might  be 
as  it  might.  Dorothy  would  not  worry.  She  beamed 
upon  the  company  with  a  harrowed  watchfulness  (for 
empty  cups  or  plates)  that  would  have  been  comical  to 
anybody  who  saw  it  with  detachment,  and  that  was  in- 
deed comical  to  David,  who  perhaps  of  them  all  was  most 
occupied  in  contemplating  Dorothy  in  her  charm  and  her 


136  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

naivete.  He  was  teasing  her  during  the  whole  meal,  in 
his  slow,  quiet,  drawling  voice,  that  gave  a  whimsical 
dryness  to  all  he  said. 

"You  see,  you'll  be  my  sister-in-law,"  he  was  saying; 
"or  at  least  the  sister  of  my  brother-in-law,  and  my 
sister's  sister-in-law — the  sister  of  the  man  my  sister  is 
going  to  marry.  ...  So  we're  bound  to  be  friends. 
They  always  are,  you  know.  They  have  all  the  privileges 
of  relationship  and  none  of  the  canlankering  bore.  Be- 
sides, I  understand  that  you're  coming  to  stay  with  us 
when  we've  got  Priscilla  off  our  hands.  That's  not  to 
be  for  months,  of  course ;  but  we  shall  have  to  'play  you 
in'  by  a  series  of  earlier  visits.  Shan't  we  ?  And  do  you 
know  that  I'm  going  to  write  an  important  work  that 
your  brother  Stephen  has  lamentably  missed  the  oppor- 
tunity of  writing?  It's  called  Prolegomena  to  Criticism. 
Oh,  so  you're  all  listening?  .  .  .  Yes,  Prolegomena  to 
Criticism.  The  third  section  (after  those  on  Theology 
and  Philosophy,  which  are  very  profound)  deals  with 
Creative  Literature — poetry,  novels,  plays,  and  so  on. 
I've  prepared  the  thesis.  I  shall  say  there  are  three 
divisions  of  Creative  Literature — Classical,  Anti-Classical 
(or  Romantic),  and  Anti-Romantic  (or  Realistic).  .   .   ." 

"Are  realistic  works  anti-classical?"  inquired  Stephen, 
inaudible  at  a  distance. 

"But  what  about  the  things  that  are  none  of  those?" 
demanded  Dorothy. 

"Oh,  they  must  belong  to  one  or  other  if  they're  to  be 
critically  recognized.  But  I'll  allow  subdivisions.  There 
are  always  the  Classico-romantico-realistico  combina- 
tions ;  and,  among  the  basest  types,  the  quasi — or  pseudo 
— romantic,  realistic,  classic.  I  shall  lay  down  to  one 
tittle  the  exact  constituents  of  a  work  of  Creative  Litera- 
ture, settle  the  definition  of  Romance  better  than  the 
Schlegels  were  ever  able  to  do  in  spite  of  their  Sisyphean 
labours,  and  of  course  come  out  very  strong  on  Realism. 


TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES  137 

That  is  to  say,  I  shall  praise  Russian,  French,  Spanish 
(the  Spanish  kind  is  going  to  be  very  much  overrated  in 
the  future)  realism;  but  I  shall  entirely  condemn  any 
English  realism  whatever ;  because  everybody  knows  how 
dull,  drab,  sordid,  depressing,  and  in  every  way  con- 
temptible any  writer  is  in  England  who  writes  convinc- 
ingly about  anything." 

"Anybody  would  think  you  were  a  novelist  working 
off  his  spleen,"  suggested  Stephen. 

"Not  at  all,"  drawled  David,  suavely,  unmoved  by  such 
a  damaging  comment :  "I'm  only  wrriting  Prolegomena  to 
Criticism  in  the  correct  spirit  of  modest  academic  and 
theorist  dogmatism.  I  shan't  say  anything  about  English 
romance,  because  there  isn't  any.  Perhaps  a  few  ignorant 
and  inaccurate  words  about  Scott.  The  'great  romantic 
and  idle  child'  touch.  I  shall  confine  myself  to  the  theory 
of  romance  in  literature,  because  that  gives  scope  for 
severity  and  controversial  quotation.  I  shall  have  great 
sport  determining  whether  Homer  was  classic  or  romantic 
and  whether  Euripides  was  a  realist  or  not.  ..." 

"I  don't  believe  he's  going  to  write  any  such  book!" 
declared  Dorothy  stoutly;  and  thereby  revealed  such 
friendliness  and  intimacy  with  David  that  he  was  secretly 
delighted  amid  all  their  laughter. 

"And  of  course  David  doesn't  like  what  he  calls  realistic 
books,"  said  Mrs.  Evandine. 

"Quite  true,"  David  admitted.  "They  terrify  me. 
They  are  my  bad  conscience." 

"I  don't  quite  see,"  remarked  Priscilla,  rather  dryly, 
"what  is  the  particular  point  of  all  David's  information 
about  himself.     Did  anybody  ask  him  for  it?" 

"Oh,  Priscilla !    How  unkind !" 

"That's  always  the  way  the  ebullient  heart  is  treated 
in  England.  People  think  that  if  you  talk  frankly  about 
yourself  you  must  be  second-rate!"  wailed  David. 
"Whereas   if,   like  Agg,   you   deliberately   falsify   your 


138  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

opinions  about  yourself,  and  monologize  the  conversation, 
you  must  be  a  wit." 

"Does  anybody  think  Mr.  Agg  a  wit?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Evandine.     "It  seems  rather  extravagant." 

"Did  you  talk  to  Agg  .  .  .  Stephen?"  David  had 
adopted  the  Christian  name  without  a  qualm ;  and  Priscilla 
noticed  it  with  quick  delight.  "You  know  he  was  at 
Totteridge  the  other  Sunday.  He's  the  most  amazing 
Rodomonte  that  I've  ever  met.  If  you  could  see  Agg  and 
Vanamure  lunching  together — both  talking  at  once  .  .  . 
long  streams  of  monologue  converted  into  continuous 
duet.    Really  awfully  good!" 

"They're  both  really  very  pleasant  men,"  Mrs.  Evan- 
dine  protested,  although  she  laughed  a  little  at  the  picture ; 
"and  they're  rather  appreciative  of  .  .  ." 

David  interrupted,  very  coolly,  talking  as  the  blase  man 
of  extreme  comprehension. 

"Yes,  I  know,  mother:  'the  crhne  de  la  crime  of  the 
best  in  literature'  as  old  Vanamure  says.  But  only 
Vanamure  is  pleasant.  Agg,  you  know,  is  a  publisher's 
reader;  and  that  profession  doesn't  hold  much  native 
kindness  and  appreciation.  They're  unfortunate  drudges. 
I  speak  feelingly,  because  I  know.  It's  really  incredible 
what  a  lot  of  rubbish  one  has  to  wade  through.  You, 
Stephen,  talk  of  the  rubbish  that  is  published.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  do ;  but  I  leave  it  at  that.  Just  imagine 
that  the  publisher's  reader  is  mostly  dealing  with  stuff 
that  isn't  published;  and  you'll  see  how  he  deserves  pity 
rather  than  abhorrence.  I  pity  the  author ;  and  I  pity  the 
reviewer;  but  most  of  all  I  pity  the  publisher's  reader. 
You  can't  expect  them  to  be  really  sweet-tempered.  I 
don't  expect  it  of  Agg;  but  he's  such  an  egoist  that 
he  somehow  survives  to  write  those  orotund  novels  of 
his." 

"Personally,  I  don't  find  Mr.  Agg  very  interesting," 
suggested  Priscilla.     "Need  we?" 


TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES  139 

"How  querulous  she  is!"  David  turned  to  Dorothy. 
They  had  some  conversation ;  and  Stephen  heard  Dorothy 
say:  "You  see  his  finger  in  his  waistcoat  pocket?" 
Whereat  they  both  laughed,  and  Stephen  hastily  with- 
drew his  finger,  reddening  under  their  mischievous  eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  David  is  undermining  Dorothy's  loyalty," 
Mrs.  Evandine  said  to  him.     He  explained : 

"Her  eyes  are  very  sharp,  and  she's  very  outspoken. 
But  I  want  Priscilla  to  see  it  first,  before  the  others." 

"Of  course.  .  .  ." 

David  was  reciting  to  Dorothy  a  speech  delivered  by 
Bassanio  towards  the  end  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice  and 
addressed  to  Portia.  Priscilla,  mystified,  could  only  hear 
the  words  "the  ring  .  .  .  the  ring  .  .  .  the  ring."  Pres- 
ently she  glanced  doubtfully  at  Stephen,  who  smiled  as 
he  again  withdrew  his  finger  from  his  waistcoat  pocket. 


11 

It  was  quite  a  surprise,  amid  this  happy  if  not  very 
distinctive  chatter,  for  the  company  to  find  a  stranger 
among  them — an  affable,  smiling,  elderly  gentleman  in 
a  blue  serge  suit.  His  surprise,  if  he  really  felt  any,  was 
conveyed  in  bird-like  becks  as  he  greeted  the  guests  at 
first  collectively  and  then  individually. 

"Charmed,"  he  said,  "to  find  my  young  nestlings 
enjoying  such  unwonted  gaiety.  Delightful  surprise. 
Pleasant  company,  dainty  repast,  and  all  that  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  vagueness  of  his  conclusion  that  sent  light- 
ning messages  between  Dorothy  and  Stephen.  Priscilla 
saw  the  glow  fade  from  Stephen's  face.  This  must  be 
the  old  man,  of  whom  Dorothy  had  spoken.  Dorothy 
had  said,  in  a  strong  phrase,  that  he  was  "one  of  the 
worst."  What,  exactly,  did  such  words  mean?  She 
could  only  see  one  whose  bearing  resembled  that  of  an 
old  actor.    How  curious  his  skin  was!    As  if  it  had  been 


140  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

lightly  powdered.  She  saw  his  thin,  not  quite  red,  lips 
part ;  and  she  thought  his  smile  one  of  remarkably  infec- 
tious bonhomie.  What  then  did  Stephen's  changed  face 
and  Dorothy's  ominous  words  mean  when  they  were 
combined  ?  She  looked  at  her  mother  and  at  David,  both 
of  whom  were  smiling  with  obvious  pleasure  at  the 
repeated  words  of  gladness  uttered  by  the  old  man. 
Nothing,  clearly,  had  struck  them  as  in  any  way  wrong 
or  disconcerting.  Yet  she  could  see  that  Dorothy  had 
paled. 

"And  this  delightful  young  lady  .  .  ."  said  the  old 
man,  shaking  her  hand  with  extreme  friendliness.  "I 
trust  that  we  may  all  be  better  acquainted.  Thank  you, 
no,  Dorothy  ...  my  little  Dolphy  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  pray 
excuse  me.  .  .  .  For  one  moment  I  am  called  away. 
But  I  shall  return,  if  you  will  allow  me.  .  .  .  How  kind 
you  are!" 

Smiling  still,  the  old  man  backed  away.  Only  as  he 
turned  in  the  doorway  did  Dorothy's  eye  encounter  the 
object  of  her  search — deep  in  the  inner  recesses  of  his 
coat  an  unmistakable  cork. 

When  the  old  man  had  gone,  David  harked  back  to 
Agg,  who  for  some  perverse  reason  appealed  to  him  this 
afternoon  as  a  conversational  stand-by,  to  the  exclusion 
of  other  more  valuable  topics. 

"Now,  Agg,"  he  said,  and  every  adjective  he  used 
hereafter  was  drawled  forth  after  a  hesitation  that  was 
almost  a  stammer,  and  that  gave  to  his  speech  an  amusing 
air  of  pointed  fastidiousness  not  unlike  that  of  his  father. 
"I  don't  know,  Stephen,  if  you  ever  read  one  of  his 
novels?  They're  extraordinarily  florid,  otiose  works  .  .  . 
rolling  in  fluent  volubility,  and  as  empty  as  balloons. 
They're  all  about  some  girl  or  some  man,  swollen  great 
monstrous  exaggerations,  as  though  the  people  were  all 
ten  feet  high  and  lived  their  lives  very  slowly.  Plenty 
of  time,  says  Agg;  let's  dwell  on  the  significance  of  every 


TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES  141 

minute  and  every  word.  So  these  huge,  formless,  swollen 
masses  of  empty  pseudo-psychology  come  wallowing  out. 
.  .  .  You  can't  tell  one  from  the  other;  but  they're  full 
of  brave  words  about  art,  and  soul,  and  beauty,  and  sacred 
fires,  and  eternal  wisdoms.  Agg's  an  eternal  wiseacre 
himself.  Fancy  his  talking  about  art !  He's  not  an  artist, 
or  anything  like  one."  For  some  moments,  in  fact,  David 
engaged  himself  in  the  process  of  revealing  to  the  inat- 
tentive company  some  of  his  more  ornate  views  upon 
modern  writers.  These  views,  delivered  lazily,  and  with 
a  good  many  finished  hits  at  what  he  considered  to  be 
the  certain  or  possible  predilections  of  his  individual 
hearers,  took  a  great  deal  of  time  for  their  proper  expo- 
sition. It  was  therefore  not  surprising  that,  just  as  every- 
body was  beginning  to  fidget,  or  to  yawn,  or  to  frown,  or 
to  look  faintly  distressed,  his  superabundant  discourse 
was  checked  by  the  re-entrance  of  the  old  man,  who  had 
bathed  his  face,  brushed  his  hair,  and  changed  both  collar 
and  handkerchief,  from  which  latter  article  proceeded  a 
striking  scent  of  white  violet.  He  seemed  to  regard  the 
company  with  undiminished  benignity. 

"Did  I  catch  the  sound  of  some  friendly  argument?" 
he  asked.  "Argument  is  so  dear  to  my  heart.  I  often 
enjoy  a  quiet  discussion  with  Stephen  of  the  last  book 
he  has  read.  It's  surprising  how  helpful  I  find  that 
discussion  in  the  following  days.  Stephen,  of  course,  is 
always  very  much  occupied.  I'm  afraid,  dear  boy,  he 
works  too  closely.  But  when  I  see  such  .  .  .  such  per- 
fectly charming  company  here  I  feel  that  perhaps  .  .  . 
I  have  underestimated  the  friendships  that  my  boy  enjoys. 
And  then  I  see  that  my  little  Dolphy  has  her  friends  here 
as  well.  .  .  .     How  kind  that  is.  .  .  ." 

He  paused,  looking  gravely  and  respectfully  from  one 
upturned  face  to  the  other,  until  he  came  to  the  expres- 
sionless face  of  Stephen,  who,  in  his  ecstasy  of  self- 
control,  had  entirely  suppressed  any  sign  of  emotion.   He 


142  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

looked  as  if  he  did  not  hear  the  old  man,  whose  eye 
kindled  as  he  allowed  it  to  rest  upon  his  elder  son. 

"We  have  so  few  friends,"  he  said,  a  little  pathetically, 
to  Mrs.  Evandine.  Then,  with  a  consummate  change  of 
tone  and  bearing,  he  swung  back  to  Stephen.  "By  the 
way,"  he  proceeded,  with  an  added  distinctness  which 
made  Dorothy  grip  the  edge  of  the  table,  "I  met  this 
afternoon,  quite  near  here,  a  friend  of  ours — of  yours, 
Stephen — you  will  know  whom  I  mean.  A  particular 
friend.     She  sent  all  kindest  messages." 

The  old  man's  eyebrows  were  raised  as  he  spoke;  he 
seemed  almost  to  lift  himself  upon  his  toes.  Stephen 
suddenly  remembered,  with  a  thrill  that  sent  him  cold,  the 
letter  that  had  never  reached  him. 


in 

The  ill-breeding  of  the  old  man's  last  speech  was  the 
first  thing  that  made  Mrs.  Evandine  conscious  of  distaste 
for  him.  She  looked  a  little  grave.  Where  Stephen  read 
menace,  and  Dorothy  a  little  puzzle  too  slight  to  trouble 
her  long,  Mrs.  Evandine  was — although  she  was  ignorant 
of  any  double  meaning — really  distressed  at  the  old  man's 
mysterious  hinting.  David  saw  more  truly  than  any  of 
the  women.  He  could  see  the  old  man's  eyes  and  mouth, 
and  eyes  and  mouths  will  almost  certainly  remain  among 
men  and  women  the  clearest  indications  from  without  of 
mood  and  character.  Not  only,  to  David,  was  there  a 
falsity  in  the  old  man's  manner  of  speech  that  jarred ;  but 
when  he  saw  the  shining  hardness  of  eye  and  the  cruel 
turn  of  the  lips  with  which  the  old  man  gave  secret  mean- 
ing to  his  message,  David  read  that  meaning.  David  could 
quickly  follow  from  words  spoken  to  the  thoughts  and 
meanings  that  lay  behind — a  power  that  is  denied  to  most 
people,  who  are  too  much  occupied  with  the  moment  to 
go  beyond — and  he  of  all  those  who  overheard  the  speech 


TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES  143 

was  the  only  one  to  read  into  it  a  hint  of  malice.  The 
meeting  had  obviously  taken  place  with  a  woman;  and 
what  woman  was  there  whose  name  was  not  freely  men- 
tioned? David  looked  quickly  at  Stephen;  but  except 
that  his  lips  were  slightly  parted  Stephen  did  not  seem 
to  be  at  all  hurt.  David,  upon  an  impulse,  dashed  in  with 
words  to  cover  the  moment's  difficulty. 

"We've  been  discussing  and  theorizing  about  art, 
Mr.  Moore.  You  will  know  what  a  fertile  subject  that 
is.  I  wonder  if  it  was  much  agitated  when  you  were 
young." 

The  old  man  drew  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in 
a  quizzical  smile. 

"I  don't  know."  The  words  were  reflectively  drawled. 
"Somehow,  d'you  see,  it  all  seems  so  remote  from  the 
practical  interests  of  these  days — myes."  The  old  man's 
drawn  brow  lightened,  as  if  he  cheerily  threw  off  the 
strain  of  recollection.  The  unconquerable  light  of  youth 
returned  to  his  face.  "I  expect  we  were  all  very  much 
like  the  young  fellows  of  to-day.  One  likes  to  believe 
that  one's  own  time  was  best.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Evan- 
dine,"  he  charmingly  went  on,  so  that  even  Mrs.  Evandine 
relaxed  towards  him,  "that  when  I  carry  my  mind  back 
over  the  years,  and  think  of  my  youth,  I  always  remember 
places  rather  than  persons  or  theories.  I  can  remember 
all  this  district  when  Clerkenwell  and  Islington  and  St. 
Luke's  were  as  sweet  and  interesting — grave  old  houses 
and  gardens,  occupied  by  the  well-to-do — as  some  of  the 
more  distant  suburbs  of  to-day  that  people  visit  by  train 
or  tramcar  as  holiday  treats.  It  is  that  that  I  remember, 
Mr.  Evandine;  the  old  joys  and  the  old  grandeurs  of 
these  now  shabby  streets.  The  spirit  has  changed ;  quick 
growth  means  quick  decay.  You  have  your  greater  speed, 
Mr.  Evandine;  you  go  farther;  it  may  be  that  you  do 
more.  But  those  of  us  who  remember  the  old  days — the 
good  old  days,  we  call  them — when  men  were  of  the  old 


144  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

stamp  and  the  old  school — when  sons  loved  their  fathers 
and  looked  up  to  them,  when  the  grey  hairs  of  the  fathers 
were  honoured  and  not  despised ;  when  these  same  fathers 
were  consulted  .  .  .  were  the  guides  .  .  .  instead  of  the 
spurned,  the  tolerated  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  checked  himself  as  he  found  his  emotion 
rising.     Mildly  he  turned  to  Dorothy. 

"I  fear  that  I  am  too  .  .  .  too  garrulous,  child.  .  .  . 
Pardon  an  old  man's  fancy.  When  I  remember  my  dear 
wife  .  .  ." 

"Really,  really,  father !"  said  Stephen  in  an  intense  low 
voice  of  extreme  impatience. 

The  two  men  looked  at  one  another  for  a  moment,  and 
the  old  man,  shrugging  his  shoulders  with  a  slight  pitiful 
gesture  of  acquiescence,  was  silent.  When  he  again  spoke 
it  was  to  address  himself  directly  to  Mrs.  Evandine. 

"I  think  you  have  never  met  my  other  son,  my  baby? 
I  should  like  you  to  have  seen  him.  He's  a  brave  lad. 
The  loss  of  his  mother  has  borne  most  hardly  upon  him, 
as  it  has  upon  me.  .  .  .  But  I  see  from  Stephen's  face 
that  I've  said  too  much  .  .  .  trespassed  upon  your 
patience.  Stephen  is  my  watch-dog,  my  Cerberus.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  he  is  a  little  fierce  with  me;  but  he's  a  good 
lad,  a  good  lad.    We  understand  one  another  very  well." 

Under  his  breath  Stephen  muttered  to  himself :  "We 
do  indeed."  He  was  too  ashamed  to  meet  Priscilla's 
glance.  No  longer  did  he  finger  the  pocket  of  his  waist- 
coat where  reposed  the  magical  box  with  the  furry  lining 
and  the  precious  content.  There  was  the  faintest  hesi- 
tating pause.     David  again  broke  it. 

"Where  is  it  that  you  write?"  he  asked  Stephen. 

Stephen  patted  the  table. 

"Exactly  here,"  he  said.  "I  read  at  the  window.  The 
sun  shines  right  on  to  the  opposite  houses  as  it  sets — a 
sort  of  burning  red  light  comes  on  the  windows." 

They  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out ;  and  Priscilla 


TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES  145 

caught  Stephen's  hand  and  pressed  it,  holding  it  still  as 
she  stood  beside  him,  to  show  that  she  was  all  his.  The 
old  man  had  turned  away  to  the  sideboard,  and  was 
munching  a  sandwich  that  he  had  casually  appropriated. 
Stephen's  disengaged  hand  stole  to  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
While  the  others  were  looking  down  at  the  tiny  figures 
that  comically  walked  in  the  street  below — little  striding 
figures  so  curiously  intent  upon  their  errands  and  so 
marvellously  far  from  seeming  to  be  men  and  women — • 
he  perilously  withdrew  .the  box;  and  Priscilla,  blushing 
and  smiling  and  perhaps  a  trifle  trembling,  watched  him 
unfasten  the  clasp  and  disclose  the  small  ring  so  comfort- 
ably nestling  against  the  plush.  It  was  done  in  a  moment, 
and  the  ring  was  upon  her  finger,  and  secretly  kissed  by 
Stephen  in  its  new  significant  dignity,  while  yet  the  others 
contemplated  life  from  unaccustomed  angles.  Even  the 
old  man,  whose  sharp  eyes  seemed  sometimes  as  though 
they  must  furtively  have  glistened  from  the  back  of  his 
head,  was  unaware  of  the  swift  transformation.  Upon 
Priscilla's  hand  gleamed  the  ring;  never  any  more  would 
she  be  apart  from  Stephen;  for  as  the  heroes  of  the  old 
fairy  tales  could  call  genii  by  the  mere  turning  of  the 
rings  upon  their  fingers,  so  Priscilla  must  for  ever  call 
up  the  vision  of  Stephen  and  revive  her  memory  of  that 
strangely  coloured  afternoon  by  the  action  of  touching 
the  ring  that  he  had  given  her.  She  would  be  able  to 
feel  it  even  in  the  darkness,  very  beautiful  and  precious 
as  it  lay  so  gently  upon  her  hand. 


IV 

And  afterwards,  when,  after  some  very  kind  invita- 
tions from  all  three  of  the  Evandines,  Stephen  saw  them 
on  their  way  to  King's  Cross  Station,  Priscilla  walked 
with  her  hand  quietly  within  his  arm,  as  boldly  and  as 
proudly  "engaged"  as  any  girl  had  ever  been.     She  took 


146  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

on  a  new  sedateness  as  she  went,  and  Mrs.  Evandine's  eyes 
were  filled  with  a  softness  that  was  love  and  pity  and 
happiness  combined  and  indissolubly  united.  If  she 
sighed,  her  sigh  was  not  one  of  regret,  though  it  perhaps 
held  some  regret  as  well,  for  she  had  a  graver  sense 
than  any  that  Priscilla  had  as  yet  reached  of  the  gravity 
of  her  child's  engrossing  adventure.  But  when  they 
parted  Airs.  Evandine  warmly  clasped  Stephen's  hand, 
and  repeated  her  earnest  invitation  that  he  and  Dorothy 
should  come  as  often  as  they  could  to  Totteridge. 

David  took  Priscilla's  arm  and  laughingly  drew  her 
away. 

"We  must  catch  our  train,  my  dear  Stephen.  And  the 
parting's  so  short.  Better  to  be  short.  Come  soon.  Let 
us  lunch :  shall  we  ?  Ring  me  up,  there's  a  good  man. 
Good-bye.  ..." 

Stephen  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after  them  until 
the  traffic  swallowed  them  up,  and  he  could  no  longer 
see  Priscilla.  Then  he  made  his  way  home  again.  The 
setting  sun  was  hot  upon  the  buildings  that  faced  west, 
upon  their  blazing  windows  and  transfigured  chimney- 
pots. The  day  was  going  down  in  a  red  sunset,  faithful 
promise  for  the  morrow,  and  fit  conclusion  to  that  fateful 
visit.  He  did  not  think  of  anything  but  his  happiness, 
that  warmed  his  heart  and  made  him  humble  before  a 
vision  of  delight.  How  strange  that  love  so  simple  and 
so  entirely  easy  should  have  seemed  only  a  fortnight 
before  something  beyond  the  furthest  dreams  of  his 
imagination.  How  wonderful  that  Priscilla  should  love 
him!  Glad  and  thankful  and  full  of  an  overwhelming 
gratitude  he  retained  the  vision  of  her  parting  look.  It 
brightened  these  dull  streets,  that  fell  away  before  him 
as  he  walked,  like  so  many  insubstantial  vagaries  of  the 
dullard's  mind.  He  reached  his  home,  still  in  a  reverie; 
still  dreaming  he  ascended  the  stairs. 


TEA  WITH  THE  MOORES  147 

Not  once  had  he  thought  of  his  father.  Not  once  had 
he  remembered  any  of  the  pain  of  the  whole  of  his  life, 
or  even  of  that  last  hour  when  it  seemed  that  some  spring 
would  surely  break  and  throw  the  whole  scene  into  a 
bitter  confusion.  Yet  he  was  again  reminded  of  all  that 
had  passed  the  moment  he  entered  the  room ;  for  Dorothy 
stood  by  the  mantelpiece  with  her  head  upon  her  arm — 
not  crying,  but  white  and  spiritless,  as  if  she  had  passed 
through  some  dreadful  ordeal.  As  she  heard  his  step 
she  turned,  and  came  and  caught  his  hand. 

"Oh,  Stephen,  Stephen!"  she  said,  with  her  voice  all 
shaking.     "He's  horrible!     He's  so  horrible!" 

"Poor  old  girl!"  said  Stephen,  and  awkwardly  held 
her,  so  that  her  face  was  against  his  shoulder.  "It's  too 
bad !"  Only  for  a  moment  did  Dorothy  stay  so ;  for 
in  her  present  excited  restlessness  she  could  not  bear  to 
be  still. 

"The  moment  you  were  gone  .  .  .  Oh,  Stephen !  I've 
never  seen  him  as  he  was  .  .  .  He  suddenly  said :  'Who 
are  these  people?'  And  I  said :  'Stephen's  going  to  marry 
her'  He  said  :  'What!'  I've  never  seen  him  like  that — 
so  ghastly,  like  some  hideous  dream.  Hideous !  I  thought 
he  was  .  .  .  For  a  minute  I  was  frightened.  I  said : 
'You  wicked  man  .  .  .  wicked' ;  and  he  laughed.  I  never 
heard  such  a  laugh.     It  was  devilish.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear!"  Stephen  said.  "He's  an  old  sinner;  but 
that " 

"It's  true.  It  was  so  bitter,  so  ugly.  What  a  cruel 
man  he  is !  He  said :  'We'll  see'  .  .  .  He  can't  stop 
you,  can  he?" 

"Of  course  not,  child.  How  could  he?"  Stephen 
laughed  quite  gleefully.  "That's  one  glorious  thing. 
He'll  wish  he  could.  But  he  can't.  As  for  his  rage — 
It's  only  the  shock  of  it." 

"And  I've  been  saying  I  wanted  to  see  the  effect  of 
the   news.     I    did   see   it!"     Dorothy   herself    began   to 


148  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

laugh.  "I  suppose  I  asked  for  trouble!  It  was  inquisi- 
tive and  beastly  of  me.  He's  beside  himself !  Oh,  but 
Stephen,  I  really  was  frightened  of  him.  You  won't  .  .  . 
won't  leave  me  to  him,  will  you  ?"  She  lowered  her  voice, 
but  the  appeal  was  quite  genuinely  urgent. 

"Never.  When  I  go,  you  go  too.  It'll  be  all  right." 
He  was  splendidly  reassuring. 

The  rapid  beating  of  Dorothy's  heart  began  to  subside. 

"One  thing  I  wonder,"  she  presently  murmured.  "I 
wonder  why  he  made  all  that  mystery  about  .  .  .  Oh, 
nothing.  I'm  only  thinking  out  loud.  It's  being  so  much 
alone.    You  get  into  the  habit." 

Dorothy  left  off  speaking.  She  turned  again  and  faced 
her  brother,  with  a  glance  in  which  archness  and  an 
inclination  to  tears  struggled  for  mastery. 

"Stephen  .  .  ."  she  went  on,  in  a  very  quiet  voice, 
"I  think  Priscilla  is  lovely.  And  I  think  it's  lovely.  The 
ring,  I  mean.  And  I  hope — oh,  my  dear,  I  do  so  hope 
that  you'll  be  as  happy  as  happy  can  be.  As  happy  as 
you  deserve.  .  .  ." 


PART  TWO 

THE  STORY  OF 
THE  HUSBAND'S  PROGRESS 


CHAPTER  IX:  THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE 


STALCETT,  the  home  of  the  Evandines,  was  very  gay 
indeed.  There  were  no  festoons  of  lamps  or  obvious 
external  decorations;  but  if  it  had  lain  in  a  busy  thor- 
oughfare the  house  would  have  been  watched  by  half  a 
hundred  children  and  sentimentalists.  There  were  many 
people  there — people  of  all  sorts  and  shapes  and  sizes, 
from  the  decorous  Clodds  and  the  soft  and  epithalamic 
Mr.  Vanamure,  to  David  and  Professor  Tidd  (the 
decrepit  Romanticist,  who  illustrated  in  his  person  the 
decay  of  his  moribund  study)  ;  from  Montague  Parvin, 
the  beet-sugar  expert  who  wanted  to  convert  southern 
England  into  a  sacchariferous  area,  to  Vernon  Agg,  who 
had  rather  similar  designs,  according  to  David,  upon  the 
English  novel.  And  there  were  hundreds — it  almost 
seemed — of  women,  young,  middle-aged,  elderly;  women 
with  brains  and  women  with  no  brains,  women  with 
character  and  women  whose  minds  went  no  deeper  than 
conventional  observance  of  whatever  was  proper  in  life. 
There  were  no  divorced  women;  but  that  was  because 
Mrs.  Evandine  did  not  like  any  that  she  had  met,  and 
their  absence  was  due  not  to  general  disapproval  so  much 
as  to  personal  distaste.  There  was,  it  is  true,  one  charm- 
ing girl  who  had  the  reputation  of  stealing  from  them  the 
husbands  of  other  girls,  a  girl  in  the  way  of  whose  free 
entry  into  the  homes  of  young  married  women  obstacles 
were  sedulously  put,  and  who  met  with  few  such  kind 
and  sympathetic  hostesses  as  Mrs.  Evandine.  But  she 
was  maligned,  and  was  merely  one  irresistibly  attractive 
to  light-headed  males,  and  not  able  to  keep  herself  from 

151 


152  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

innocent  flirtation.  To  give  definite  attention  to  each 
person  present  would  need  the  skill  and  perhaps  something- 
more  than  the  normal  kindness  of  a  Balzac;  since  the 
cruel  or  malicious  eye,  by  concentrating  upon  pretensions 
or  physical  traits  or  the  most  trilling  of  animosities  and 
suspicions  and  strangenesses,  could  so  easily  have  turned 
ninety  per  cent,  of  the  gathering  to  inextinguishable 
ridicule.  It  will  be  enough  here  to  say  that  all  these  people 
were  walking  about  the  garden  at  Stalcett  on  a  brilliant 
June  day  (about  a  year  after  the  events  of  our  previous 
chapter),  as  though  the  garden  belonged  to  them  and  as 
though  it  were  a  very  great  deal  smaller  than  it  had 
seemed  to  Dorothy  upon  her  first  visit. 

To  Dorothy,  in  fact,  the  garden  had  steadily  diminished 
in  size.  It  no  longer  appeared  to  her  as  large  as  Waterlow 
Park.  So,  too,  the  house  in  these  days  was  something 
less  thriliingly  immense  to  explore  than  Warwick  Castle 
or  any  other  famous  country  seat ;  but  was  become  simply 
a  place  of  the  most  exquisite  comfort  and  imperfect 
privacy,  with  tremendous  advantages  in  the  way  of  ease 
and  restfulness,  and  little  disadvantages  indicated  by  her 
still  violently  suppressed  impulse  to  discuss  all  matters 
at  meal-times.  Dorothy  had  made  acquaintance  with 
Biddy,  but  she  continued  to  be  frightened  of  her,  in  spite 
of  Biddy's  evident  amiability;  because  Dorothy  always 
wanted  to  know  whether  Biddy  liked  her,  and  this  it  was 
beyond  Biddy's  power  to  convey  save  by  way  of  large 
helpings  or  unobtrusive  attentions.  So  Dorothy  was 
afraid  of  Biddy,  and  shared  some  of  Stephen's  distrust 
of  that  matchless  parlour-maid  as  a  superior  and  sphinx- 
like person.  Dorothy  was  now  upon  excellent  terms  with 
everybody  else  in  the  place — could  trust  Mrs.  Evandine 
completely,  could  talk  considerately  to  Mr.  Evandine,  had 
almost  reached  the  point  of  teasing  David  as  much  as  he 
teased  her,  which  was  a  good  deal.  She  had  struck  up 
a  moderate  friendship  with  Romeo ;  but  they  would  never 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  153 

be  warm  friends,  because  Dorothy  moved  too  startlingly 
for  Romeo's  rather  exacting  taste. 

Dorothy  and  Ethel  Clodd  were  for  to-day  allies;  they 
were  dressed  alike:  they  would  have  looked  alike  if  only 
Ethel  Clodd  could  for  a  single  hour  have  flung  studious 
virtue  to  the  winds  and  been  as  quick  and  lively  as 
Dorothy.  As  it  was  they  were  contrasted,  the  one  all 
mercury,  the  other  rather  bewitchingly  solemn.  Ethel 
Clodd  was  a  fair,  white-faced  girl,  with  grave  eyes,  who 
moved  as  if  perhaps  she  were  a  little  short-sighted  and 
obliged  to  beware  of  stepping  out  of  some  charmed  circle. 
She  was  really  pretty,  or  she  would  have  been  pretty  with 
a  very  little  more  animation;  and  when  once  she  was 
interested  in  anything  would  talk  with  much  good  sense. 
Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  her  prettiness,  she  was  unat- 
tractive to  men,  who  often  underrate  sterling  excellences 
in  casual  partners.  Ethel  Clodd,  however,  could  afford 
to  wait.  She  was  wise  in  her  generation.  Not  all  the 
flimsy  vivacities  of  her  shallower  rivals  could  interfere 
with  her  destiny;  which  was  that  of  a  happy  wife  and 
mother.  Hers  was  a  lot  forever  to  be  envied  by  the  early 
exhausted  butterflies  as  they  lost  their  looks  and  their 
tempers  in  the  vain  pursuit  of  transient  happiness.  She 
had  rather  prominent  teeth,  but  they  were  only  so  promi- 
nent as  to  make  her  smile  a  very  pleasant  one ;  and  every- 
body was  led  by  that  slow  smile  to  be  rather  indulgent 
to  her.  She  and  Dorothy  were  excellent  friends  now, 
pitying  one  another  a  good  deal,  but  otherwise  not  ungen- 
erously alive  to  each  other's  qualities.  Each  had  seen  for 
some  months  that  their  association  upon  this  day  was 
inevitable,  and  had  accepted  with  equanimity  the  duty 
and  the  significant  partnership  which  fate  had  prepared 
for  them.  They  had  given  much  time  and  thought  to  the 
whole  matter,  and  knew  if  possible  more  about  the  service 
and  the  bride's  trousseau  than  did  Priscilla  herself,  a  fact 
not  altogether  without  parallel  upon  other  such  occasions. 


154  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 


Up  in  David's  study  the  son  of  the  house  sat  with 
Stephen,  "pulling  him  round."  It  was  all  very  lament- 
able that  the  bridegroom  should  not  be  moving  easily 
among  those  who  were  assembled  for  his  sacrifice;  but 
Stephen  had  been  so  tried  by  the  well-meant  gushes  of 
some  of  the  ladies  that  David  had  watched  with  anxiety 
his  inclination  to  become  saturnine.  At  all  costs,  thought 
David,  any  slightest  ruffling  must  be  averted.  Accord- 
ingly he  had  plucked  the  smouldering  brand  from  the  fire 
of  conflict,  and,  having  plied  him  with  a  glass  of  sherry 
and  a  biscuit,  was  busy  talking  about  anything  but  the 
day.  Neither  had  changed  much  in  expression  during  the 
rapid  year  of  Stephen's  engagement;  what  change  there 
had  been  was  too  gradual  to  be  apparent  to  the  casual 
glance.  It  might  have  been  seen  that  Stephen  was  still 
too  impatient,  and  that  David  was  still  charmingly  lazy 
in  appearance  and  very  alert  in  fact.  When  one  saw  them 
together  it  was  upon  David's  air  of  lively  good-breeding 
that  one  looked  with  most  satisfaction;  and  yet  it  was 
upon  Stephen's  personality  that  one  lingered  with  the 
greater  hesitation.  That  is  to  say,  one  liked  David  more 
than  Stephen ;  but  one  could  not  help,  from  some  perverse 
doubt,  wondering  what  Stephen  thought  of  this  or  that. 
Very  likely  the  doubt  was  only  personal,  because  man- 
kind is  fortunately  intrigued  by  many  diverse  sorts  of 
temperament :  it  was  none  the  less  quite  conscious  and 
unmistakable,  and  may  for  that  reason  be  supposed  to  be 
not  wholly  groundless. 

The  two  young  men  sat  together,  talking  in  snatches, 
every  now  and  then  for  a  stronger  reason  recurring  to  the 
numerous  guests  with  their  elaborate  talk  and  compliment. 
And  every  time  that  Stephen  recalled  the  ordeal  through 
which  he  had  passed  he  winced  and  tried  to  forestall  any 
attempt  from  David  to  throw  him  back  into  the  arena. 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  155 

He  forced  himself  to  talk.  Over  and  over  again  he 
revived  a  subject,  for  the  sake  of  diverting  his  thoughts. 
But  at  last  his  native  honesty  triumphed  over  his  cow- 
ardice. 

"I  know  I  really  ought  to  go  down  and  out  again  .  .  ." 
he  impulsively  said.  "Hiding  here!  It's  not  fair,  is  it? 
But  I  wish  they  wouldn't  stare  and  chatter.  I  know  all 
they  think  and  want  to  say.  ...  I  know  it  all  before 
they  begin  to  speak.  And  I  want  to  go  right  through 
the  talk  and  say,  'Yes,  I  know  it's  extraordinary  that  she 
should  marry  me,  but  marriages  are  always  extraordi- 
nary.' That  would  be  very  rude,  and  not  at  all  fair  to 
Priscilla.  Because  it's  clear  that  they're  all  very  fond 
of  her." 

"Yes,  my  boy.  If  that's  the  speech  that's  on  your 
tongue  you're  better  away,"  admitted  David,  lolling  in 
his  chair,  with  his  thin  brown  face  drawn  into  an  air  of 
commiseration.  "Tell  Priscilla  about  it  in  the  train.  She'll 
be  glad  to  hear  about  it.  Save  it  all  up  for  her.  She 
can't  rebel.  You  can  say  anything  you  like  to  your  wife, 
you  know." 

Stephen  laughed  a  little. 

"I  hope  I  shan't  be  as  brutal  as  that.  I  shall  tell  her 
how  jolly  they  are." 

"She  won't  believe  you.  She  knows  better.  I  say: 
did  you  see  Vanamure  link  up  with  Agg?  What  a  treat 
that  was !  To  hear  Agg  telling  Vanamure  about  Zola  and 
Vanamure  talking  simultaneously  about  the  vernal  fresh- 
ness of  the  English  countryside.  .  .  .  You  know,  for  all 
his  idiocy,  Agg's  got  a  sort  of  antic  sense  of  sport.  Have 
you  ever  noticed  it  ?    He  does  make  one  laugh  at  times." 

"He  only  bores  me,"  Stephen  said,  dolefully.  "I  can't 
stand  these  novelists.  What's  the  good  of  them?  I  never 
met  a  novelist  yet  who  wasn't  an  egoist.  .  .  .  They're 
so  vain!" 

David  murmured  with  laughter: 


156  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"That's  Satan  rebuking  sin,  isn't  it?  With  a  ven- 
geance !" 

With  a  nodding  of  penitent  disgust  Stephen  accepted 
the  rebuke. 

"I  suppose  it  is.  I  suppose  no  egoist  ever  likes  or  can 
ever  understand  the  egoism  of  anybody  else.  Unless  he's 
got  more  sense  of  fun  than  I  have,  anyway.  Agg's  got 
that.  I  suppose  he's  quite  decent.  But  really,  some  of  his 
opinions  are  the  crankiest  I  ever  came  across!" 

David  roared.  Over  and  over  again  he  laughed  aloud. 
At  last  he  spluttered : 

"Remarkable  thing.  Astonishing  thing.  He  was  say- 
ing only  the  other  day  how  curious  it  was  that  you,  whom 
he  regards  as  on  the  whole  sound,  should  be  derailed  at 
times — absurdly !" 

Stephen  did  not  laugh.  It  could  hardly  have  been 
expected  of  him. 

"It's  quite  true,"  he  said,  with  resignation. 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  David. 

And  with  that  the  door  opened,  and  Priscilla  came  in. 

"Where's  my  husband?"  she  said.  "I  heard  David's 
great  roaring  laughter.  I  knew  it  must  be  Stephen  being 
witty." 

They  did  not  undeceive  her.  There  was  no  need  to  do 
so.  For  Stephen  was  not  really  so  devoid  of  a  sense  of 
fun  as  he  pretended  to  be;  and  he  was  so  much  in  love 
with  Priscilla  that  he  could  bear  to  be  teased  by  her 
without  any  slightest  inclination  to  resentment.  He 
followed  her  meekly  from  the  room,  his  heart  dancing. 


in 

There  was  a  breathless  hurry  of  farewells  and  good 
wishes.  Dorothy  claimed  Stephen  for  one  anguished 
moment — the  dreadful  moment  of  their  first  parting — 
and  at  his  quite  unashamed  embrace  was  able,  through 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  157 

her  misty  vision  of  the  vanishing  motor-car,  to  think  in 
a  flash  of  exultation :  "He  wasn't  ashamed.  He's  still 
mine!"  which  was  a  consoling  thought  for  those  first 
blank  minutes.  Mrs.  Evandine,  parting  in  the  same 
moment  from  her  own  girl,  had  something  of  the  same 
assurance.  Both  of  the  women  who  remained  turned 
naturally  to  David,  who,  less  moved,  less  tragically  the 
witness  of  an  utter  cleavage,  kept  his  head  and  maintained 
his  attitude  of  intimate  sympathy.  The  rest  of  the  party 
gathered  with  tepid  outcry;  and  Mr.  Vanamure  was  con- 
scious of  figuring  in  one  more  priceless  enviable  snapshot 
upon  a  distinguished  occasion.  There  was  not  one  un- 
happy face  in  all  that  crowd.  The  one  miserably  wretched 
and  disconsolate  creature  in  the  house  sat  alone  in  Pris- 
cilla's  bedroom,  pathetically  upon  Priscilla's  wedding- 
dress,  puzzled  and  forlorn. 

In  the  motor-car,  suddenly  shy  and  speechless,  were  the 
two  chief  actors  in  the  comedy — pleasurably  stunned  by 
the  silent  privacy  of  the  swiftly  running  vehicle,  aware 
that  the  road  and  the  trees  were  flashing  noiselessly  past 
them  in  a  swimming  blur  of  green  and  brown  that  had  not 
yet  merged  together  into  a  hazy  grey.  It  was  Priscilla 
who  first  recovered,  who  first  laid  her  hand  upon 
Stephen's  hand,  and  recalled  the  one  forsaken  figure  in 
the  happy  household. 

"Romeo!"  she  said  quickly.  "Oh,  Stephen!  ...  It 
seems  silly ;  but  I  can't  help  feeling  so  sorry  for  him.  He 
knew  I  was  going.  It  was  so  pathetic  to  see  him  sitting 
in  my  bedroom,  watching.  He's  awfully  unhappy,  I'm 
sure." 

Stephen  took  her  hand — so  slender  within  his  large 
one  with  its  strangely  pointed  fingers. 

"But  when  we  get  back,"  he  urged,  "Romeo  will  come 
and  live  with  us,  won't  he?" 

"Of  course.  It's  ridiculous  to  feel  as  I  do ;  but  he's  so 
dumb.    That's  what's  so  very  touching.    If  he'd  howled!" 


158  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"I  feel  rather  like  that  about  Dorothy,"  Stephen 
confessed. 

They  were  turning  into  the  Great  North  Road,  and 
were  bumped  against  each  other. 

"Oh,  but  Dorothy  can  howl!"  protested  Priscilla.  "I 
feel  a  little  as  though  I  were  going  to." 

"The  chauffeur  would  think  we  were  trying  to  stop 
him!" 

"Don't!"  It  was  imploring,  desperate;  for  the  first 
tremulous  breath  of  laughter  was  a  breaking  down  of  her 
self-control.  Priscilla  really  was  rather  tearful  for  an 
instant.  Then  she  lay  back  and  took  his  arm ;  and  Stephen 
rather  awkwardly  began  to  talk  of  other  things  to  give  her 
time  for  complete  recovery. 

"I  knocked  my  hat  when  we  went  back  from  the  church 
— in  getting  into  the  carriage.  It  furred  it  up  all  the 
wrong  way.  David  says  that's  always  done.  I  shouldn't 
think  he  would  do  it.  I  expect  he  was  only  comforting 
me.  It  was  extraordinary  that  your  father  kept  coming 
up  to  me  and  saying  that  he  wanted  to  talk  about  Southey. 
He  can't  make  up  his  mind  whether  he'll  write  a  life  of 
Southey  or  whether  he  ought  to  make  me  do  it.  He  thinks 
I  shouldn't  be  fair  to  Southey;  but  I  believe  he  dreads 
wading  through  Southey's  voluminous  works.  .  .  ." 

"You'd  better  do  it  in  collaboration,"  Priscilla  ven- 
tured, drying  her  eyes  and  trying  to  speak  in  an  ordinary 
voice.  "I'm  really  ashamed  of  being  so  absurd,  Stephen 
...  so  silly." 

"You  couldn't  be  that,  my  dearest."  His  not  very 
successful  attempt  at  off-hand  forgiveness  made  her  laugh 
again,  so  he  went  on :  "Don't  you  worry  about  me,  but 
let  me  go  on  talking." 

"Does  it  do  you  good?" 

"It's  rather  a  relief.  I  mean,  if  you're  miser- 
able  " 


"Not  really  miserable.     Only  rather  dissolved." 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  159 

"That's  what  I  meant.  You  see,  I  never  know  what 
to  do.     There  arc  men  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  but  gracious,  Stephen !    I  haven't  married  men !" 

"Am  I  doing  all  right?  That  chap  might  turn  round, 
you  know !" 

Priscilla  sat  up  very  straight;  but  she  still  held  his 
arm. 

"Now  I'm  not  going  to  laugh  any  more,"  she 
announced.  "And  I  never  really  cried.  I'm  going  to 
talk  quite  rationally.  Do  I  look  nice?  Hasn't  it  been 
a  splendid  day!  We  shall  get  there  in  daylight.  I  sup- 
pose we're  in  good  time." 

They  could  see  the  shadow  of  the  car,  with  their  lug- 
gage strapped  to  it,  whisking  about  away  from  them, 
now  upon  the  road,  now  upon  a  vehicle  as  they  passed 
it.  Everywhere  there  was  bright  sunshine,  hot  and  burn- 
ing, and  above  them  was  the  impenetrable  sky  into  which, 
when  they  looked  upwards,  they  seemed  to  be  soaring 
towards  an  ever  deeper  blue.  It  was  a  day  without 
cloud. 

"Are  you  superstitious,  Stephen?  Do  you  believe  in 
omens?" 

He  could  see  her  delicately  flushed  face  so  near  his 
own;  her  curling  hair  beneath  the  little  tilted  hat;  her 
soft  white  neck  above  the  sobriety  of  her  grey  travelling- 
dress.  If  he  had  believed  in  auguries  he  would  have 
supposed  her  presence  by  his  side,  her  loveliness,  and  the 
pure  pearl-like  beauty  that  seemed  to  him  only  a  symbol 
of  her  intrinsic  beauty,  to  be  the  best  possible  omen  for 
the  future.  The  day,  the  flawless  early  summer  day  with 
its  sudden  breezes  among  the  thick  strong  leaves  and  the 
gathered  dust  of  the  roadway,  was  only  a  trifling  part 
of  his  sense  of  the  future.  It  was  all  part  of  the  wonder- 
ful whole,  the  transfiguration,  as  he  might  have  thought 
it,  of  his  whole  life.  He  did  not  answer  her  directly :  she 
did  not  really  care  to  know  whether  he  was  superstitious. 


160  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

She  wanted  to  know  that  he  was  as  happy  as  she  was,  as 
exhilarated  and  confident.  And  that  could  be  told  better 
in  his  glance  than  by  any  words. 

Their  car  sped  through  Kentish  Town  and  Camden 
Town — gloomy  districts  that  made  Stephen  think  of  his 
abandoned  home — and  down  Hampstead  Road  and  Tot- 
tenham Court  Road  to  Charing  Cross.  They  swiftly 
crossed  Trafalgar  Square  with  its  steady  sweep  of  traffic 
upon  the  eastern  and  southern  sides;  and  passed  down 
Whitehall  into  Victoria  Street ;  and  then,  in  a  flash,  they 
were  within  the  station  at  Victoria,  out  upon  the  platform, 
hurrying,  hurrying,  to  the  train,  to  their  carriage.  And 
Priscilla  was  conscious  of  it  all  like  an  excited  tangle 
of  colour  and  noise  and  sensation — a  misty  bewildering 
marvel  that  was  given  sense  and  form  only  by  her  thrilling 
knowledge  of  happiness  inextinguishable.  The  press  of 
incident  and  emotion  was  too  large,  too  overwhelming 
otherwise  to  have  any  meaning.  She  might  even  have 
been  frightened  with  a  sense  of  turmoil  and  strange 
experience  if  she  had  not  seen  Stephen,  who  had  been 
hitherto  a  little  constrained,  soberly  directing  everything 
for  her  comfort.  Though  she  hated  tears,  and  ordinarily 
never  cried,  Priscilla  knew  that  tears  were  in  her  eyes 
when  she  saw  Stephen  so  concentrated  upon  thought  for 
her.  She  loved  him  with  passionate  surrender.  He  was 
beautiful  in  her  eyes,  as  a  child  to  its  mother.  She  was 
too  moved  for  speech. 

iv 

The  train  jolted  over  the  many  points  of  the  terminus 
and  out  across  the  broad  river,  and  they  could  see  other 
trains  going  and  coming;  and,  upon  the  surface  of  the 
river,  strings  of  barges  and  one  or  two  rapid  little  motor- 
boats  tuff-turring  in  and  out  among  the  heavier  craft  with 
a  sort  of  sharp  busyness  that  made  Priscilla's  eyes  soften 
in  a  smile  of  pleasure.     It  was  London  that  they  were 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  161 

leaving  behind — to  Stephen  that  overpressing  home  of 
twenty-nine  years;  to  Priscilla  that  strange  palace  of 
delights  that  was  still  in  her  dreams  of  wider  life  a 
beckoning  mystery.  It  was  London,  all  that  mighty 
power  that  she  heard  every  day  from  her  home  in  a  far 
distant  roar  like  the  sound  one  hears  in  a  sea-shell.  And 
all  the  time  their  hearts  seemed  to  beat  with  suffocating 
thickness  and  pain,  as  though  they  could  not  breathe ;  and 
every  now  and  then  they  would  turn  from  the  dull  houses 
and  the  occasional  wide  traffic-laden  streets  to  look  at  one 
another  with  ingenuous  candour.  Stephen  now  sat  beside 
Priscilla — which  some  self -consciousness  that  was  not 
entirely  selfish  had  previously  forbidden  him  to  do — his 
arm  about  her;  so  that  she,  lightly  touching  his  breast 
with  her  shoulder,  could  feel  his  every  respiration  almost 
in  accord  with  her  own.  It  was  remarkable  to  her  that 
his  breath  should  be  longer  and  slower  than  her  own : 
the  fact  aroused  her  curiosity  and  her  attention.  She 
felt,  with  a  little  quick  surprise  at  the  thought,  which 
intruded  upon  her  preoccupation,  that  they  had  never 
before  been  so  entirely  alone  together;  that  the  Stephen 
who  was  her  husband  was  a  new  Stephen  marvellously 
fashioned  alike  for  her  protection  and  her  tender  care. 
She  was  absorbed  in  her  love  for  him,  drowned  in  the 
sense  of  his  beating  heart  and  his  slow,  measured  breath- 
ing. She  saw  his  right  hand  upon  his  knee  almost  as 
though  she  had  never  seen  it  before,  and  for  a  moment 
watched,  fascinated,  the  strong  fingers  that  were  so  broad 
at  the  base  and  so  strangely  shaped  and  pointed.  Their 
beauty  was  quite  unquestionable,  and  even  in  her  reverie 
she  understood  that  it  was  wholly  masculine,  wholly  un- 
like the  beauty  of  a  woman's  hand  and  yet  equally  beauti- 
ful in  its  own  right.  It  was  not  that  she  had  been  ignorant 
of  these  thoughts  earlier;  but  she  found  that  they  were 
now  insistently  grouped  and  forced  upon  her  consid- 
eration. 


162  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

The  train  quickly  sped  through  the  nearer  suburbs, 
where  in  many  gardens  there  were  children  playing,  and 
where  washing  was  limply  hanging  to  dry;  where  too 
they  saw  often  only  brown  earth  and  the  posts  to  which 
clothes-lines  were  intended  to  be  fastened.  Then  came 
longer  gardens,  in  which  there  were  bushes  and  flowers, 
and  wicker  chairs  in  which  girls  sat,  shading  their  eyes 
with  their  hands  in  order  to  look  at  the  hurrying  train. 
There  was  no  washing  here ;  but  only  a  Sunday-afternoon 
sort  of  suburban  trimness,  rather  placid  and  uncomfort- 
ably rigid.  Then  at  last  they  came  to  the  first  fresh  green 
of  the  nearer  country,  where  pasture-lands  seemed  to  fly 
into  fields  of  fluctuating  unripe  grain  and  again  to  emerge 
beside  the  railway,  filled  with  grazing  cattle.  For  a  long 
time  they  saw  no  sheep  at  all;  but  only  cows  and  bulls, 
and  sometimes  horses  that  leapt  or  that  flung  up  their 
heads  as  the  train  came  abreast  of  them;  and  once  or 
twice  there  were  delightful  ponies  that  scampered  away 
across  the  meadows  as  if  they  had  all  their  lives  for  sport 
and  were  driven  irresistibly  by  a  sudden  impulsive  friski- 
ness  as  whimsical  as  the  wind.  With  the  same  eyes 
Priscilla  and  Stephen  saw  everything  they  passed,  sitting 
very  still  and  silent,  but  intensely  living  and  only  glad 
to  be  thus  together  and  alone.  Priscilla  felt  surprised 
when  once  there  stole  into  her  mind  a  memory  of  the 
morning,  of  the  church  and  the  guests,  of  her  mother  and 
David  and  Dorothy — surprised  to  think  how  far  behind 
this  precious  moment  they  all  seemed;  once,  too,  she 
startled  herself  by  the  wish  that  she  and  Stephen  could 
always  feel  thus  gloriously  alone  together,  with  their 
mood  of  content  unchanged  and  unchallenged  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives.  There  was  as  yet  no  need  for 
them  to  speak.  She  was  perfectly  happy;  she  had  no 
trouble,  no  doubt  at  all.  Everything  seemed  to  her  to 
be  perfect. 

Then  Priscilla  began  to  wonder  what   Stephen  was 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  163 

thinking.  It  pleased  her  to  speculate,  to  pretend  that 
he  must  be  thinking  of  her,  or  not  thinking  at  all,  but  only 
as  it  were  existing  in  the  sensation  of  her  nearness.  How 
curious  it  was  that  they  should  both  be  so  silent,  and  that 
she  should  feel  such  languor  and  inability  to  draw  her 
mind  away  from  these  fancies !  For  one  moment  she  was 
filled  with  the  wish  to  express  her  thoughts — all  her 
thrilling  thoughts — as  though  for  once  she  could  say  with 
absolute  clearness  all  that  she  had  always  supposed  she 
could  never  tell  anybody.  She  had  a  longing  to  break 
down  all  these  reserves,  both  timid  and  necessary,  which 
all  of  us  (except  the  merely  liquid)  guard  with  such 
jealous  care.  To  say  to  Stephen,  "This,  and  this  finally 
and  alone,  is  the  real  I !"  It  seemed  to  be  a  supreme  need 
of  her  being — to  say  in  some  amazingly  permitted  speech 
of  pure  lucidity  that  which  would  for  ever  make  Stephen's 
mind  one  mind  with  hers.  It  was  a  fantastic  and  an 
engrossing  thought  that  filled  and  permeated  her  attention. 
If  only  she  might  once  be  granted  the  power  of  clear 
expression!  The  power  to  give  herself  utterly  into 
Stephen's  keeping!  Then  there  could  never  be  any  mis- 
understanding, and  she  and  Stephen  would  be  one  in 
reality.  The  train's  quick  jogging  fell  in  time  with  her 
imaginings,  and  her  dream  seemed  to  take  on  a  poetic 
rhythm.  Stephen,  Stephen,  said  the  train,  echoing  her 
heart. 

She  wondered  why  he  was  quiet  when  her  own  impulse 
had  turned  so  abruptly  to  the  need  of  some  self -clarifica- 
tion. It  seemed  as  though  she  could  never  begin  to  talk ; 
that  from  Stephen  the  first  words,  that  should  open  their 
long,  intimate  record,  must  come.  She  turned  so  that  she 
might  see  his  face,  and  became  conscious  that  it  was  so 
near  her  own  that  their  cheeks  softly  touched;  and 
Stephen,  thinking  that  she  wanted  him  to  kiss  her,  turned 
also.  And  then  it  was  that  Priscilla  felt  again  that  there 
was  no  need  for  them  to  talk;  that  to  be  thus  silently 


164  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

beside  him  was  best  of  all,  and  that  words  were  only  the 
baser  measure  of  their  untrammelled  understanding.  She 
was  smiling  with  happiness,  in  a  secret  dream  that  she 
would  never  in  all  her  life  forget. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  month  of  June  they  had  taken 
a  furnished  bungalow  right  up  on  the  Sussex  Downs,  very 
nearly  remote  from  ordinary  habitations,  satisfyingly 
compact  and  solitary.  It  was  their  prize,  upon  which 
Priscilla's  thoughts  had  often  gleefully  exulted.  The 
bungalow  lay  beyond  the  reach  of  any  but  the  hardiest 
driver,  up  a  bad  road  that  was  steep  and  wellnigh  im- 
passable ;  and  upon  this  day  they  were  for  a  few  instants 
afraid  that  they  had  taken  a  wrong  direction.  Then 
at  last,  upon  a  plateau  quite  above  the  road,  they  saw  the 
bungalow's  white  sloping  roof,  and  its  brown  sides  and 
the  short  narrow  veranda  which  lay  along  the  front  of 
the  little  house.  From  that  veranda,  when  they  turned, 
they  could  see  far  and  wide  over  all  the  lower  land  of  the 
district — to  the  east  to  distinct  heights  as  the  down  rose 
once  more  above  the  valley,  to  the  north-east  a  sort  of 
open  weald  along  which  they  could  see  beautifully 
clumped  trees  and  a  mysterious  distance.  At  the  back 
of  the  bungalow  the  down  rose  steeply;  less  than  half 
a  mile  to  the  west  lay  a  fine  thicket  of  trees  in  which  on 
summer  nights,  they  had  been  told,  the  nightingale  sang. 
Everywhere  they  could  see  the  soft  warm  contours  of  the 
downland,  less  green  than  brown,  less  brown  than  green, 
in  the  mysterious  lights  and  shadows  cast  by  the  glowing 
sun  and  the  fleeting  clouds;  mellowed  by  some  native 
quality  which  they  came  to  think  most  potent  of  all  the 
influences  that  evoked  its  peculiar  beauty. 

And  within  the  bungalow  with  its  stained  and  varnished 
walls  there  was,  in  spite  of  every  strangeness,  a  sense  of 
home  that  made  both  Priscilla  and  Stephen  thrill.  This, 
then,  was  their  home.  Upon  a  common  impulse  they 
turned  to  each  other  in  delight.     The  small  room,  with 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  165 

its  unknown  furnishings  and  undiscovered  limitations, 
was  transfigured  in  their  eyes.  They  might  have  been 
seeing  now  for  the  first  time  after  a  long  period  of  blind- 
ness.    Priscilla  saw  Stephen  gravely  smiling. 

"Yes;  but  I  wish  you'd  say  it's  perfect!"  She  heard 
her  own  voice  with  a  sense  of  strangeness. 

"But  it  is!"  Stephen  answered,  in  the  same  hushed 
tone.  "And  you  couldn't  make  that  more  certain  by 
boasting  about  it." 

"It  can't  fade.    Or  do  you  think  it  might?" 

Priscilla  was  taking  off  her  hat — for  all  the  world  as  if 
she  had  lived  there  for  years.  As  if  this  were  not  their 
wedding-day. 


The  afternoon  waned;  the  dusk  gradually  misted  the 
distance  and  made  the  dim  farther  sky  change  to  a  shade 
that  might  almost  have  been  mauve.  Directly  above,  so 
clear  was  the  air,  the  blue  faded  in  tone  but  remained  as 
deep,  entrancing  to  the  eye.  As  they  stood  upon  the 
veranda  they  saw  a  star  quite  suddenly ;  and  although  for 
a  time  it  seemed  alone  they  found  that  other  stars  could 
quickly  be  seen,  very  pale  in  the  pale  sky.  There  was 
no  moon ;  the  new  moon  was  not  yet  risen.  Distant  lights 
began  to  start  up  in  the  growing  darkness,  like  sparks  of 
fire  to  the  seeking  eye.  Everywhere  the  day  wTas  dying. 
A  low,  soft  breeze  came  from  the  sea,  rustling  the  trees 
that  were  close  to  the  bungalow.  It  seemed  to  Priscilla 
that  they  strained  their  ears  to  catch  some  other  sound,  to 
find  stillness  everywhere  except  where  the  leaves  moved 
and  swayed  so  pleasantly  around  them.  The  little  wind 
cooled  the  air,  and  it  was  so  very  fresh  and  sweet  that 
it  gave  to  the  air  a  new  fragrance.  She  saw  the  sky 
deepening  once  more,  to  a  blue  much  darker  than  any  that 
is  seen  in  the  daytime,  but  still  clearly  a  rich  blue,  untinged 
with  grey.     The  stars  were  brighter,  thickly  clustered, 


1C6  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

thicker  and  thicker,  so  that  they  hung  bewilderingly  and 
dazzled  the  eye. 

"How  quiet  it  is,"  Priscilla  said  in  a  low  voice.  "At 
home  you  always  hear  the  same  never-stopping  noise  of 
London.  You  know  that  everything  is  going  on  there. 
But  here  there  isn't  any  sound.  You  expect  to  be  able 
to  hear  little  things  running  in  the  grass,  and  scampering. 
.  .  .  Jt  makes  me  feel  rather  frightened.  Not  frightened 
...  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Stephen,  are  you  very  glad 
you've  married  me?" 

"Yes,  dear."  She  could  hardly  hear  him.  "Very  glad 
and  proud." 

"I'm  a  little  frightened.    Only  for  a  moment." 

"It  isn't  real.  I'm  very  frightened  too.  But  I  know 
it  isn't  real.  If  we  were  really  frightened  we  should  hide 
it.  We're  only  pretending  to  feel  frightened.  We're 
afraid  to  know  our  own  happiness,  perhaps?" 

"Perhaps  that  is  it.  When  we  were  in  the  train  I  had 
such  a  longing  to  tell  you — something;  but  I  never  could 
think  what  to  tell  you.  It  was  like  a  clamour.  As  if  I 
could  tell  you  about  myself.  Do  you  think  it  was  senti- 
mental? It  was  rather  yearning.  You're  not  ...  I 
know  you  wouldn't  laugh;  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  be 
thinking  of  me  as  silly." 

"Why  should  you  ever  suppose  such  a  thing?  It's 
like  the  impulse  to  sing  or  to  dance.  It's  not — it  couldn't 
be  sentimental.  It  could  only  be  that  if  we  didn't  really 
love  each  other." 

"How  much  you  know!"  she  said,  teasingly,  yet  with 
her  eyes  gleaming. 

"I  only  know  from  experience  of  myself." 

It  was  like  a  revelation  to  her.  How  strange  that  she 
should  have  thought  of  him  as  passive,  when  of  course 
he  must  be  as  impulsive  as  herself.  She  turned  again, 
still  rather  overwhelmed  by  the  recognition  of  his  deep 
love. 


THE  DAY  OF  PROMISE  167 

"If  I'm  ever  unjust  to  you,"  she  said ;  "it's  only  through 
a  momentary  stupidity.  I  shan't  ever  really  be  blind  for 
more  than  a  little  while.  But  I  am  blind.  I'm  ashamed 
to  be  blind,  and  so  unjust." 

"So  are  we  all  blind  and  unjust,"  he  assured  her.  "If 
you  say  that,  oughtn't  I  to  say  it?  Because  I'm  much 
more  stupid  than  you  are,  and  very  stubborn." 

"You're  not  unjust." 

She  could  feel  his  shrug,  that  sufficiently  indicated  his 
disagreement. 

"Well,  if  you're  ever  unjust,"  he  said,  in  a  deep  tone  of 
amusement,  "I'm  to — what?" 

"Tell  me." 

"Is  that  .  .  .  Oh,  Priscilla :  you  know  that  that 
wouldn't  be  any  good !"  His  voice  was  rich  with 
laughter. 

"Then  trust  me  and  leave  me  to  find  out  the  truth." 

Stephen  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  replying.  Then 
he  said  quite  seriously : 

"Yes :  I  should  think  that  would  be  the  better  way." 

They  continued  in  silence  to  look  out  from  the  veranda 
upon  which  they  stood,  and  to  watch  the  stealthy  approach 
of  night,  until  they  were  swallowed  up  in  the  developing 
darkness,  close  together,  with  quickly  beating  hearts, 
thinking,  thinking  ...  as  though  they  hoped  to  see  in 
the  pathless  shadow  some  answer  to  their  thoughts  and 
some  solace  for  their  emotion. 


CHAPTER  X:  THREE  LETTERS 


DURING  the  first  long  week  at  the  bungalow  Stephen 
and  Priscilla  made  wonderful  excursions  over  the 
Downs,  sometimes  east,  sometimes  west;  and  at  other 
times  southwards  in  the  direction  of  the  sea.  They  took 
their  lunch  on  these  occasions,  and  ate  it  in  the  shelter 
of  little  wayward  bushes  of  gorse,  or  in  the  soft  heaps 
of  hay  before  a  diminishing  haystack.  The  wind  swept 
always  like  a  mild  gale  over  the  tops  of  the  Downs,  taming 
the  burning  heat  of  the  sun  and  catching  Priscilla' s  curls 
and  her  skirt  in  its  progress.  Often  they  saw  flying  rab- 
bits, and  watched  birds  hitherto  unknown  to  them  hop- 
ping and  skimming  low  above  their  surrounding  garden. 
They  peered  into  dew-ponds  with  many  sagacious  reflec- 
tions upon  those  treacherous  legendary  places,  into  which 
a  child,  and  even  a  man,  may  unwarily  walk  and  be 
drowned  without  chance  of  escape.  Priscilla  told  of  the 
naive  foreigner  who,  upon  first  seeing  gorse,  went  down 
on  his  knees  to  worship  the  burning  bush  of  God ;  Stephen 
with  a  map  of  Sussex,  discoursed  authoritatively  (in  his 
new  role  of  antiquary)  upon  the  local  place-names,  and 
how  Steyning  meant  this  and  how  Alfriston  meant  that, 
until  they  could  have  persuaded  themselves  that  they  were 
natives  of  the  friendly  county.  They  could  have  sung, 
with  one  of  the  poets  who  have  ingenuously  adopted 
Sussex  as  a  kind  of  beloved  stepmother, 

I've  given  my  soul  to  the  Southdown  grass  .  .  . 
Oh,  Firll  and  Ditchling  and  sail  at  sea 
I  reckon  you  keep  my  soul  for  me! 

168 


THREE  LETTERS  169 

— lines  for  which,  whatever  their  intrinsic  virtues,  such 
lovers  of  Sussex  as  were  these  two  lovers  could  never  be 
too  grateful.  It  was  like  a  happy  dream  to  them  to 
wander  upon  the  Downs  on  these  hot  bright  summer 
days.     Neither  had  ever  been  so  happy. 

And  when  they  had  been  away  a  week  they  received 
their  first  letters,  which  were  also  the  first  reminder  of 
the  life  they  had  left,  to  which  they  must  inevitably 
return.  Two  of  the  letters  were  addressed  to  them 
jointly;  the  third,  of  a  different  character,  was  for 
Stephen  alone.  They  came  one  morning  just  as  the  two 
holiday-makers  were  about  to  set  forth  upon  a  journey 
far  west  from  their  base.  Mrs.  Darnley,  their  char- 
woman, who  lived  half  a  mile  away  and  miraculously 
did  all  the  work  in  a  couple  of  hours  each  day,  besides 
coming  in  again  to  prepare  the  evening  meal,  saw  the 
postman  climbing  in  a  sort  of  indefatigable  stupor  up 
the  distressing  hill.  She  called  out  the  good  news,  and 
herself  took  from  the  postman  his  triple  burden,  upon 
which  Priscilla  pounced  with  an  eagerness  that  was  subtly 
not  inconsistent  with  her  perfect  joy  in  their  solitude. 

"Two  .  .  .  three !"  she  cried.  "One  for  you — two  for 
both  of  us.  This  is  from  mother ;  and  this  from  Dorothy. 
And  yours  .  .  ."  She  scrutinized  the  writing.  "I  don't 
know  whom  it's  from ;  but  it's  a  rather  attractive  writing. 
Just  a  very  little  shaky  .  .  ." 

Stephen  took  from  her  hand  the  letter  she  held  out; 
and  glanced  at  it  while  she  turned  again  to  the  others. 
A  slow  frown  gathered  upon  his  brow  and  in  his  darken- 
ing eyes.     He  shook  the  letter  slightly  in  distaste. 

"It's  from  the  old  man,"  he  said,  doubtfully. 


11 

Mrs.  Evandine's  letter  was  not  a  very  long  one,  but  it 
was  full  of  her  normal  kindness.     "My  dear  Children," 


170  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

she  wrote, — "We  have  all  been  so  glad  to  see  how  fine 
the  weather  is;  and  were  delighted  to  hear  that  every- 
thing at  the  bungalow  is  perfect.  We  thought  it  would 
be.  Dorothy  is  here  with  us,  and  is  writing  by  the  same 
post.  You — Stephen — won't  need  to  be  told  that  she  has 
been  a  great  comfort  to  us  since  you  have  both  been 
gone.  Your  father — this  is  Priscilla  (really,  it's  more 
difficult  than  I  thought  to  write  to  two  people  at  once)  — 
has  been  very  busy  writing  an  essay  upon  gardens,  and  has 
had  Minch  on  the  verge  of  madness  during  the  whole  of 
the  week.  I  can't  help  thinking  the  subject  of  the  essay 
was  carelessly  or  recklessly  chosen;  but  I  have  a  sus- 
picion that  either  David  (for  mischief)  or  Mr.  Vanamure 
(through  sheer  innocence  of  heart)  suggested  the  whole 
thing.  Romeo,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  has  been  inconsolable. 
He  has  miaowed  all  over  the  house,  has  sat  for  hours 
upon  your  bed,  refuses  milk  unless  it  is  actually  held 
under  his  chin  so  that  he  hasn't  to  stoop  at  all,  and  is  quite 
wretched.  Poor  old  chap !  We've  told  him  in  vain  that 
it  isn't  for  very  long  (I  have  consoled  myself  a  little  with 
that  thought,  though  I  don't  expect  that  either  of  you 
will  thank  me  for  it)  ;  but  it  is  so  difficult  to  convince 
Romeo  that  we're  speaking  the  truth.  Write  as  soon  as 
you  are  able  to  do  so.  We  always  hope  for  a  letter 
from  one  or  other  of  you  in  the  mornings;  but  of 
course  we  realize  that  this  is  pure  greed.  Your  loving 
Mother." 

Dorothy's  was  much  longer.  It  filled  ten  pages,  and 
was  so  splashy  and  breathless  in  style  that  they  were 
both  forced  to  laugh.  Dorothy  was  one  of  those  letter- 
writers  who  are  more  colloquial  in  pen  and  ink  than  they 
are  in  practical  speech.  Her  letters  were  always  of  the 
"Dear  Jo:  What-ho!"  variety,  and  as  those  letters  are 
always  more  interesting  to  the  recipient  than  to  the  patient 
observer  of  literal  meanings  it  would  be  unwise  to  present 
this    one    here.     Dorothy    confirmed    Mrs.    Evandine's 


THREE  LETTERS  171 

account  of  Romeo.  "My  dears.  The  poor  thing's  got 
the  most  awful  rats.  Sits  about  mopping  and  mowing 
all  day  long,  and  at  nights  roams  the  staircases.  I  heard 
an  awful  sound  at  my  door  last  night.  Got  up  in  a  panic 
and  looked.  Behold  Romie.  Walks  in,  humbly  cringing 
before  me.    I  felt  awful.    You  can't  console  him.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  poor  Romeo !"  said  Priscilla.  "He  must  be  very 
miserable !" 

"He's  in  a  bad  way.  I  wish  we  could  send  him  a 
message  by  a  sure  hand." 

"I'm  so  grateful  to  you  for  not  saying,  'Fancy  all  this 
fuss  about  a  cat.'  Until  you've  really  had  a  cat  and 
known  its  nature  you  never  understand  cats.  You  write 
ridiculous  shallowness  about  them  as  Maeterlinck  did. 
Even  intelligent  people — of  course,  not  people  with  any 
imagination — think  it's  absurd  to  love  a  cat.  They  don't 
understand  the  reserved  nature  of  cats :  it  alienates  them 
just  as  reserved  men  and  women  do.  They  say — a  dog — 
yes;  but  a  cat!    As  if  they  knew!" 

"They  don't  know  Romeo,"  soothingly  suggested  her 
hearer.     "Very  likely  that's  the  whole  difficulty." 

"Well,  that's  true.  I  admit  he's  unique.  Dorothy 
writes  very  vividly,  doesn't  she!  It's  somehow  a  ram- 
shackle, headlong  sort  of  writing;  but  it's  very  charac- 
teristic and  jolly;  and  it's  splendid  that  she  .  .  ."  Priscilla 
hesitated  .  .  .  "doesn't  complain  of  how  much  she 
misses  you.  I  know  how  much  that  must  be.  And  you 
miss  her,  I  expect;  just  as  I  miss  mother.  Not  bitterly; 
but  in  a  pleasant,  melancholy  way.  .  .  ." 

"A  kind  of  genial  sense  of  discomfort?"  he  laboriously 
asked.  Priscilla  disdained  to  acknowledge  his  joke.  She 
did  not  think  a  joke  came  naturally  from  Stephen; 
although  she  thought  he  could  sometimes  be  rather 
wittily  ironic. 

"And  all  this  time,"  she  said,  "there's  another  letter. 
Why,  you  haven't  even  opened  it  yet,  Stephen !" 


172  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 


in 


The  old  man's  letter  was  very  different  from  both  of 
the  others.  The  writing  varied  between  a  polished  clear- 
ness and  what  seemed  to  the  cruel  eye  of  Stephen  a 
deliberate  tremulousness.  The  tremulous  writing  was  all, 
naturally  enough,  to  be  observed  in  the  pathetic  or  emo- 
tional passages  referring  to  his  own  health,  state,  and 
relation  to  Stephen :  where  the  letters  were  distinctly 
formed  the  underlying  meaning  was  of  another  character. 
The  letter  was  in  one  sense  a  human  document.  As 
Stephen  read,  he  seemed  to  visualize  the  old  man  sitting 
and  writing  it.  He  could  call  up  so  many  things  belong- 
ing to  the  past,  incidents,  impotencies,  angers,  as  he  read 
the  lines  and  between  the  lines  into  the  old  man's  soul. 
His  cheeks  grew  pale  and  his  eyes  glowed.  He  was  so 
evidently  made  savage  with  anger  that  Priscilla  came 
close  to  him  and  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  Not  know- 
ing what  he  did  he  shook  it  off.  It  was  the  first  rebuff; 
and  Priscilla's  lip  trembled. 

"Stephen — don't  read  the  letter,"  she  cried  impulsively. 
"It's  a  bad  letter." 

He  put  up  his  free  hand  to  check  her.  Then,  for  the 
first  time  recognizing  her  concern,  he  tried  to  smile  reas- 
suringly, to  recover  himself  sufficiently  to  understand 
Priscilla's  words.  As  if  they  were  still  impressed  upon 
his  hearing  he  was  able  by  an  effort  of  memory  to  call 
up  the  speech  and  comprehend  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "You're  quite  right.  It  is  a  bad 
letter." 

"Don't  read  it!"  she  again  urged.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"I'd  better  finish  it  now." 

"Then  let  me  read  it  with  you." 

"No." 

"But,    Stephen!"      She    was    aghast.      Urgently    she 


THREE  LETTERS  173 

began:  "Surely  I  ought  to  know  if  it's  something  that 
hurts  you?    You  know  I'm  to  share " 

He  did  not  hear  her.  He  had  gone  back  to  the  letter. 
Again  his  face  had  darkened.  When  his  reading  was 
finished  he  deliberately  tore  the  letter  into  fragments, 
standing  and  tearing  as  if  in  making  the  scraps  smaller 
and  smaller  he  found  some  passionate  physical  satis- 
faction. 

"Dear,"  he  said  at  last,  turning  to  Priscilla.  "There 
are  some  things  I  must  sooner  or  later  tell  you,  that  I 
don't  want  to  tell  you  now.  Only  one  is  a  secret  thing. 
You  can  quite  absolutely  rely  upon  my  telling  you;  but 
not  now.  And  there  is  only  one  thing  that  need  cause 
you  any  real  unhappiness.  The  other  things  are  only 
irritations.  And  the  chief  irritation  is  this  wretched  old 
man  of  mine.  Sometimes  I  think  he's  purely  wicked. 
Sometimes  only  a  comic  old  rascal.  Just  now  I  think 
him  wicked.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  something  about 
him ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  do  that,  or  even  to  think  about 
him  or  his  rascally  letter,  all  the  time  we're  here.  Is 
that  a  bargain?" 

Priscilla  struggled  with  her  fear.  She  was  inwardly 
reproaching  him,  and  before  she  could  answer  must 
conquer  that  impulse.     She  was  deeply  wounded. 

"If  you  think  it  best,"  she  said.     "If  you  must." 

Stephen  did  not  touch  her,  as  she  almost  feared  he 
would.  Had  he  done  so  she  might  from  sheer  nervous- 
ness have  repulsed  him — have  been  driven  into  a  few 
mortified  tears.  The  sense  of  their  intimacy,  of  their 
hitherto  apparently  unbroken  confidence,  had  meant  so 
much  to  her  that  the  awakening  was  bitter,  almost 
unbearable. 

"I  wish,"  Priscilla  went  on  in  a  trembling  voice,  "I 
wish  you  hadn't  seemed  not  to  trust  me  not  to  read  it." 

"Oh!"  cried  Stephen.  "How  stupid  of  me!  How 
stupid!     But  I  never  meant  that,  Priscilla.     Don't  for 


174  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

a  moment  think  such  a  thing.  I  never  dreamt  of  it. 
Really."  He  began  almost  to  look  vainly  about  for  the 
destroyed  fragments. 

Priscilla  looked  at  him  for  the  tiniest  fraction  of  time. 
Then  her  eyelids  flickered,  so  that  tlie  whole  had  seemed 
but  a  passing  glance. 

"Shall  we  go  out  now?"  she  asked  composedly. 
Stephen  searched  her  face  for  the  truth. 

"If  you  believe  me,"  he  said. 

It  had  come  to  that!  Was  their  beautiful  happiness 
to  be  imperilled? 

"I  really  believe  you,"  Priscilla  acknowledged.  "And 
I'm  ashamed  of  having  thought  that.  It  was  unjust  and 
it  was  stupid.  I've  never  felt  like  this  before;  but, 
Stephen,  I  was  mortified,  and  though  I  see  there  was  no 
reason  I  can't  shake  off  the  feeling.  I'm  still,  you  see, 
mortified  at  not  being  ...  at  not  reading  the  letter." 

He  could  not  fail  to  recognize  the  perfect  candour  of 
her  speech.  It  made  him  rueful.  He  was  in  two  minds 
about  the  wisdom  of  explaining  the  whole  matter.  But 
his  previously  formed  resolve  governed  him,  and  his 
impulse  was  subdued.     He  made  a  murmured  protest. 

"I'm  so  afraid  the  feeling  will  remain :  that  you'll 
find  it  there  later." 

"Well,  you  can  tell  me  what  the  letter  said."  That  was 
Priscilla's  suggestion,  made  with  a  rather  conscious  smile. 

"Would  that  do?"  He  knew  it  wouldn't.  He  knew 
better  than  she  did  that  the  destruction  of  the  letter  was 
a  mistake.  And  it  was  the  second  mistake.  "The  only 
thing  that  mortifies  you  is  the  thought  that  you're  not 
trusted.     It  destroys  your  happiness?" 

"Don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  it."  Bravely,  Priscilla 
tried  to  check  the  whole  little  tangle.  "We're  taking  it 
too  seriously." 

"But  now  we've  begun  .  .  ."  he  urged. 

"Now  it's  done  we're  not  to  talk,"  she  said.     "You're 


THREE  LETTERS  175 

not  to  say  any  more.  We're  being  stupid  and  serious. 
You  are;  /  am.     Both  of  us.     Shall  we  go?" 

She  came  to  him  and  held  her  lips  to  be  kissed. 

"I  perfectly  trust  you.  You  shall  hear  it  all,"  said 
Stephen,  before  he  accepted  her  forgiveness. 

iv 

The  letter  which  had  been  destroyed  was  a  long  one. 
It  covered  much  ground.  It  ran :  "My  dear  Stephen, — 
You  have  thought  fit  to  leave  me  in  my  old  age  to  the 
care  of  strangers.  You  have  with  a  ready  hand  also  flung 
off  your  brother  at  a  time  when  of  all  others  he  needs 
your  help  most.  I  cannot  forbear  saying,  although  it  is 
clear  to  me  that  any  words  of  mine  can  do  nothing  to 
turn  you  from  the  extravagantly  selfish  course  upon  which 
you  are  now  in  defiance  of  all  humanity,  common  sense 
and  indeed  of  common  decency  so  recklessly  embarked. 
In  days  gone  by  I  have  sometimes  felt  that  I  may  have 
been  unjust  to  you,  since  my  preoccupations  with  other 
affairs  have  precluded  me  from  giving  as  much  attention 
as  I  should  have  wished  in  all  good  faith  Stephen  to  the 
affairs  of  my  home.  Well,  mea  culpa,  I  have  felt  sorely 
that  I  have  not  given  to  your  upbringing  as  much  of  that 
inordinate  care  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  dispose 
for  the  purposes  of  my  inconvenience.  But  the  result  of 
my  forbearance,  for  that  is  what  it  has  been,  to  allow 
you  to  follow  unchecked  your  own  path  to  an  individual- 
istic and  purely  selfish  happiness,  has  been  well  revealed 
to  me  in  the  past  few  days.  Now  that  I  am  too  old,  too 
weak,  to  fend  for  myself  in  this  weary  battle  of  life,  at 
a  time  when  many  men  of  lesser  talents  than  myself  are 
resting  upon  their  oars  while  their  eldest  sons,  glad  to  at 
length  take  some  share  in  brightening  the  last  years  of 
loved  fathers,  devote  some  little  time  to  the  study  of  best 
pleasing  and  looking  after  the  health  and  well-being  of 
said  fathers,  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  still  more  injure 


176  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

my  health  and  well-being  of  their  (sic)  in  order  to  scrape 
together  some  small  emolument  wherewith  to  add  to  the 
beggarly  and  contemptible  weekly  pound  which  you  have 
promised  to  send  for  my  support. 

"When  I  think  of  what  you  owe  to  me,  the  many 
anxious  nights  when  a  child,  the  many  toilsome  hours 
when  a  boy  and  young  man,  when  the  whole  care  of  the 
young  family  devolved  upon  me  in  all  the  dreadful  time 
of  the  loss  of  my  dear  wife  which  you  Stephen  never 
realized  as  I  did  because  you  were  lost  in  your  deceitful 
and  ambitious  dreams  of  self-seeking  marriage  with  a 
rich  man's  daughter  in  order  that  you  might  be  carried 
to  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  success  though  your  father, 
your  poor  wretched  father  starve,  I  confess  I  am  tempted 
to  be  cynical.  In  spite  of  all,  and  the  rebuffs  which  my 
friendly  and  considerate  interest  in  your  work  have  earned 
for  me  from  you,  I  have  hoped  that  a  time  would  come 
when  such  narrow  egoism  upon  your  part  would  soften 
in  maturity  to  a  feast  of  reason  when  at  last  you  would 
appreciate  the  loving  thought  and  care  which  your  father 
has  rendered  gladly  and  yet  not  without  close  toil  to  make 
your  character  less  rigid  and  closed  to  all  wider  feelings. 
But  enough  of  this.  I  cannot  without  tears  write  the 
saddest  words  that  perhaps  man  ever  penned.  Enough 
that  I  am  sick  at  heart  and  in  body,  distressed  by  the 
occurrence  and  its  inner  significance  in  the  history  of 
our  two  lives.  I  write  from  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  very 
sorrowfully,  since  my  day  is  failing  and  my  hand  no 
longer  can  execute  the  labour  which  my  brain  can  con- 
ceive. This,  however,  can  hardly  interest  you,  since  you 
have  left  me  without  thought.  Do  I  reproach  you  for 
this?  Do  I  wrong  you?  Your  heart  will  give  you  the 
best  answer,  or  if  not  your  heart  your  conscience. 

"But  another  matter  as  grave,  and  in  some  eyes  perhaps 
even  graver,  though  as  to  that  again  I  will  not  pretend 
in  my  mortal  fallibility  to  be  a  judge,  though  I  have  my 


THREE  LETTERS  177 

own  opinion,  claims  my  attention.  The  other  evening  I 
had  some  conversation  at  a  place  in  this  neighbourhood 
which  I  need  not  too  nearly  specify  with  a  man  who  has 
reason  to  believe  himself,  as  I  alas !  have  reason  to  believe 
him,  though  here  again  I  write  most  unwillingly  of  mat- 
ters which  concern  my  honour,  injured  by  you.  That  man 
is  Henry  Bayley.  I  think  I  see  you  flinch  at  that  name. 
Mr.  Bayley  and  myself  met  each  other  by  accident,  and 
Mr.  Bayley,  being  in  a  mood  in  which  he  was  most  ready 
to  confide  to  the  ears  of  an  honourable  man  such  as  I 
myself  have  sometimes  believed  myself  to  be,  whatever 
my  son  may  be,  the  sorrows  and  unfortunate  vicissitudes 
of  his  recent  life.  Mr.  Bayley,  seeing  that  I  was  a  just 
man,  not  given  to  dishonourable  practices  and  not  very 
likely  either  to  condone  such  practices  in  others,  even 
though  he  be  my  own  son,  confided  to  me  his  belief,  his 
inexpressibly  sad  belief,  that  his  wife,  perhaps  too  trust- 
ing, perhaps  misled,  had  been  unfaithful  to  him.  Of  his 
grief  I  had  no  need  of  proof;  for  indeed  the  tears  were 
in  his  eyes  as  he  called  me  to  witness,  as  I  readily  did,  that 
he  had  been  a  good  husband  to  her.  I  do  not  doubt  that, 
for  I  have  often  seen  Mr.  Bayley  on  his  way  home  on 
a  Friday  night  laden  with  gifts  for  his  wife  of  an  edible 
variety.  Therefore  it  was  with  sorrow  that  I  gathered 
from  Mr.  Bayley  that  his  wife  and  he  have  recently  disa- 
greed violently,  and  that  she  has  as  good  as  confessed  her 
guilt,  while  Mr.  Bayley  has  in  his  possession  a  most  dam- 
aging letter  in  which  Mrs.  Bayley  makes  an  assignation 
with  her  lover.  That  lover,  my  dear  Stephen,  both  Mr. 
Bayley  and  myself  fear  against  all  our  prepossessions  and 
wishes  to  be  yourself.  We  have  spoken  of  the  matter 
with  the  utmost  delicacy  I  assure  you,  and  in  response 
to  Mr.  Bayley's  confidences  I  have  explained  to  him  that 
what  lends  considerable  colour  to  his  view  is  the  way  in 
which  I  at  the  time  when  of  all  others,  the  time  when  a 
man  is  breaking  up,  need  most  care,  am  cast  utterly  adrift, 


178  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

robbed  of  my  daughter  and  of  all  the  support  to  which 
I  might  legitimately  have  looked  at  this  time. 

"Now  my  dear  Stephen,  Mr.  Bayley  is  under  no 
illusions  as  to  the  nature  of  the  evidence  he  has.  He 
is  not  a  vindictive  man,  and  he  understands  (now  that  I 
have  told  him)  that  in  all  probability  he  could  not  get 
any  legal  redress  for  the  wrong  he  has  suffered.  In  the 
last  resort  perhaps  he  might  be  tempted  to  have  recourse, 
though  I  have  strongly  interceded  with  him  upon  your 
behalf,  to  the  processes  whereby  he  might  obtain  that 
redress ;  but  at  present,  on  my  earnest  request,  he  under- 
stands that  the  evidence  is  not  such  as  to  carry  over- 
whelming weight  in  a  court  of  law.  Nevertheless,  as  you 
will  be  in  a  position  to  judge,  Mr.  Bayley  can  hardly  be 
expected  to  allow  so  serious  a  matter  as  this  to  pass 
unquestioned  and  without  some  suitable  action.  You 
are  now,  I  know,  on  your  honeymoon,  and  I  can  see  that 
it  would  be  a  serious  jeopardizing  of  that  future  success 
for  which  I  fear  you  have  been  so  ready  to  sacrifice  the 
health  and  perhaps  even  the  life  of  a  parent  if  the  news 
of  Mr.  Bayley's  grievance  should  reach  the  perhaps  more 
sympathetically  considered  (since  they  are  wealthy) 
parents  of  your  wife.  I  sincerely  hope  it  will  not  do  so; 
but  if  I  should  venture  to  offer  with  all  humility  my 
advice  in  a  situation  which  to  all  parties  is  and  may  be 
so  profoundly  embarrassing,  it  is  that  you  should  let  me 
hear  what  you  are  prepared  to  do  within  the  next  week. 
My  dear  Stephen  it  is  with  the  utmost  regret  that  I  take 
the  step  of  writing  this  painful  letter — a  letter  which  is 
to  me  so  doubly,  trebly  painful;  and  I  trust  that  what  I 
have  said  may  recall  you  to  a  sense  of  what  is  due  to  all 
those  whom  I  cannot,  seeing  what  is  my  own  experience, 
but  suppose  you  to  have  injured.  And  in  that  case  the 
very  blunt  and  straightforward  issue  arises — what  are 
you  going  to  do? 

"I  am  your  affectionate  father,  John  Moore." 


CHAPTER  XI:  EPITOME 


PRISCILLA  thought  very  often  about  the  letter  and 
about  the  scene  connected  with  the  letter.  The 
thoughts  sank  into  her  knowledge  and  worked  there  like 
acid.  It  became  clear  to  her  that  marriage  did  not  trans- 
form two  people  into  one  person.  She  had  always  in 
reading  novels  about  husbands  and  wives  condemned  as 
untrue  all  those  (and  they  were  the  majority)  in  which 
it  was  quite  obvious  that  husband  and  wife  had  met  for 
the  first  time  upon  page  one.  How  was  it  possible,  she 
had  thought,  that  a  husband  and  his  wife  should  be 
strangers  to  one  another  ?  How  possible  that  all  the  inti- 
macies of  marriage  should  be  shed  at  the  first  bidding  of 
unkind  circumstance?  Her  own  father  and  mother  un- 
derstood each  other  so  well  that  they  never  disagreed; 
their  lives  had  been  adjusted  so  many  years  before  that 
at  this  date  they  were  like  perfectly  responsive  partners 
in  a  dance.  It  was  not,  she  felt  sure,  that  they  had  com- 
promised, that  they  jogged  along  together  in  middle- 
aged  disillusion,  as  gloomy  writers  seemed  to  suggest 
that  middle-aged  people  must  always  cio.  That  notion 
was  impossible.  And  if  her  own  mother  and  father 
"understood"  and  were  perfectly  adjusted  in  an  intimate 
and  no  longer  passionate  love,  why  should  the  same  not 
hold  good  with  other  married  people?  That  was  what 
Priscilla  in  her  own  mind  had  argued.  Just  as  she  had 
always  been  sure — she  said  "known" — that  she  would 
marry  Stephen.  It  had  seemed  to  her  inevitable.  And 
yet  in  her  honesty  she  was  bound  to  admit  that  it  might 
only  have  been  a  hope  to  which  she  had  clung  from  an 

179 


180  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

unutterable  fear  to  face  any  alternative.  That  was  a 
reflection  that  made  her  very  soberly  thankful. 

For  now  it  appeared  that  one  could  never  be  sure  of 
anything.  Either  the  comfortable  life  she  had  led  at 
Totteridge  had  been  untrue  to  general  experience  or  she 
was  infected  with  Stephen's  detached  scepticism  about 
the  ends  and  the  measures  of  life.  She  had  gradually,  it 
is  true,  been  made  to  recognize  the  reality  of  his  point  of 
view — a  first  step  of  more  importance  than  it  may  seem 
to  the  casual  eye.  Where  she  had  always  been  gravely 
irritated  by  that  character  in  one  of  Thomas  Hardy's 
novels  who  said  that  in  the  happiest  moment  the  distance 
to  sorrow  was  so  short  that  a  man's  spirits  mustn't — out 
of  respect  to  his  insight — rise  higher  than  mere  cheerful- 
ness, she  had  now  touched  a  kind  of  life  in  which  such 
an  attitude  had  its  normal  function,  in  which  it  actually 
was  the  only  attitude  possible  to  a  self-respecting  man. 
Priscilla  knew  that  the  life  was  harder  and  more  exacting 
than  she  had  expected,  because  her  love  for  Stephen  was 
stiffened  by  such  respect  and  admiration  for  the  quality 
of  his  mind  that  she  felt  his  gravity  to  be  both  inexorable 
and  just.  For  him  gravity  was  right.  But  for  herself? 
It  was  not  that  she  found  Stephen — as  the  old  man  and 
Roy  had  done — a  repressive  influence.  Rightly  or 
wrongly  she  loved  him  too  well  for  that.  She  had  said 
to  him,  after  c  .  of  their  arguments,  "You're  a  discipline 
for  me,"  and  Stephen  had  answered,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  "I  couldn't  tell  you  what  you  are  to  me."  She 
had  suggested,  "Perhaps  a  gnat?" 

To  which  Stephen  had  replied  with  an  exhaustive 
general  protest  against  domestic  deification.  Priscilla, 
disposed  to  wish  that  Stephen  had  taken  the  matter  less 
as  a  spur  to  one  of  his  hobby-horses,  and  more  with  such 
a  light  acceptance  as  she  might  have  expected  from  her 
complacent  brother,  patted  Stephen  upon  the  head.  "My 
dear  Stephen,"  she  had  retorted,  "You're  coddling  your 


EPITOME  181 

vanity.  You  mayn't  know  it;  but  you  are.  Why  can't 
you  let  everybody  be  pleasantly  vain  ?  You're  only  being 
puritanical " 

"I'm  only  talking  about  myself !" 

"If  I  make  a  pie — which,  thanks  to  Dorothy,  I  can 
proudly  do — I  expect  you  to  praise  it.  I  expect  you  to 
say,  'There's  a  clever  little  woman'  (only  don't  dare  to 
say  'little  woman,'  or  I  shall  bite  you).  If  you  don't 
praise  me,  as  well  as  eat  my  pudding — perhaps  I  should 
have  said  pie  ...  I  shall  resent  it.  Be  natural,  child, 
and  don't  worry  so  much.  What  you  must  do  is — un- 
clench yourself.  You're  all  clenched  and  gripped.  I  can 
see  perfectly !" 

And  so  their — to  them  so  interesting — disagreement 
had  continued,  in  a  manner  far  too  tiresome  to  be 
recorded.  Nevertheless,  all  such  discussions  and  all  talks 
whatsoever  went  to  mature  Priscilla's  mind.  Her  point 
of  view  had  been  so  different  from  his,  as  her  nature  was 
so  different,  that  the  mere  clash  and  encounter  of  their 
wits  had  led  in  her  to  rapid  development.  She  could 
definitely  look  back  to  the  Priscilla  of  a  year  before  and 
see  how  much  she  had  learned.  It  was  not  that  she  had 
changed :  she  had  only  developed.  Yet  she  had  cherished 
the  belief  that  she  and  Stephen  were  in  some  way  per- 
fectly one.  For  a  time  she  feared  that  they  would  always 
be  two  people — flint  and  steel,  oil  and  water,  that  can 
never  assimilate.  She  became  aware  of  a  barrier,  which 
certainly — since  her  secret  life  was  only  a  life  of  sweet 
dreaming — must  have  originated  in  Stephen's  aloofness, 
his  reserve,  his  native  detachment.  It  must  have  been 
the  consequence  of  that  rigidity,  into  which  he  had  been 
forced  by  harsh  experience,  and  to  which  she  had  given 
the  expressive  but  unpleasant  description  of  "clenched- 
ness."  It  almost  seemed  to  her  that  this  prevented  him 
from  receiving  light  and  fresh  nourishment.  Against 
that  idea,  however,  was  the  fact  that  he  could  sometimes 


182  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

unbend,  as  he  did  to  her,  and  allow  to  be  seen  the  natural 
kindness  of  his  heart.  No  reserve,  finally,  could  conceal 
that.  She  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  barrier  was 
intellectual.  Could  she  break  down  that  barrier?  In 
these  days  she  was  sometimes  despondent  of  her  power 
to  do  that,  and  fell  into  pensive  reverie.  When  she 
became  silent  upon  these  occasions,  Stephen  seemed  to 
look  at  her  from  his  grave  eyes  as  though  he  were  puzzled 
and  almost  apprehensive.  And  all  the  time  that  Priscilla 
was  conning  her  difficulty  and  remembering  innumerable 
things  that  made  her  as  often  smile  as  dubiously  shake 
her  head,  Stephen  continued  to  observe  her.  At  last  one 
day  he  said  a  thing  that  startled  Priscilla  because  it 
entirely  changed  the  face  of  her  immediate  thoughts 
upon  that  subject. 

"You  know,"  said  Stephen,  impulsively,  "you're  still 
quite  mysterious  to  me.     Quite  baffling." 


It  sometimes  happens  that  the  simplest  natures  are 
in  this  way  difficult  to  read — that  the  observer,  involved 
in  the  complex  fabric  of  his  own  mind,  cannot  put  aside 
altogether  these  difficult  mental  processes  and  begin  his 
task  afresh  with  sympathetic  naivete.  And  it  is  imagina- 
tion only  that  will  help  the  male  observer  to  understand 
the  simple  feminine  mind,  for  no  amount  of  intelligent 
deduction — such  as  will  serve  for  political  economy  or 
physiological  psychology — will  in  this  case  have  any  true 
value.  Priscilla,  half  dreaming,  not  yet  awakened, 
thought  quickly  and  as  it  were  in  little  eddies,  all  her 
dreams  and  her  extraordinarily  unrelated  experience 
leading  her  to  feel  her  thoughts  rather  than  to  think 
them.  Upon  the  other  hand  Stephen,  accustomed  to 
subject  his  thoughts  to  a  rigorous  examination,  and  in 


EPITOME  183 

the  habit  of  finding  a  reason  for  everything  he  did,  had 
normally  a  strictness  of  judgment  quite  opposed  to 
Priscilla's  speedless  certainties.  Priscilla  could  see  that 
his  mind  was  acute  and  his  judgment  very  rapid :  she 
could  see  his  sympathy,  even  in  particular  cases  where 
its  exercise  had  seemed  to  her  to  be  unlikely,  was  often 
astonishingly  true.  She  had  asserted,  as  we  have  seen, 
that  Stephen  had  imagination.  But  perhaps,  as  Priscilla 
sometimes  thought,  there  are  many  different  kinds  of 
imagination?  Imagination,  according  to  Priscilla,  was 
the  particular  quality  that  gives  life  and  intensity  and 
vital  reality  to  the  thing  seen  or  invented.  It  was  not 
to  her,  as  it  is  to  most  people,  synonymous  with  fertility 
of  invention.  She  knew,  however,  that  outside  a  certain 
range  of  probabilities  Stephen's  imagination  was  apt  to 
dwindle  (unless  specially  roused)  to  interest  or  intel- 
lectual curiosity.  Therefore  she  did  not  contradict  him 
when  he  said  that  he  lacked  creative  power.  That  admis- 
sion was  certainly  true.  He  did  not  see  life  in  pictures 
or  in  any  of  the  forms  in  which  presumably  it  is  visible 
to  all  artists.  His  view  was  no  doubt  akin  to  that  of 
the  scientist.  But  imagination,  in  her  eyes,  he  as  certainly 
had,  and  it  coloured  his  actions :  he  was  in  no  sense 
mechanical  or  merely  groping  among  probabilities  with 
the  purblind  manufacturers  of  opinion.  But  that  imag- 
ination which  springs  out  into  ethereal  rapture  or  joyous 
absurdity  or  even  into  the  forms  of  art  his  rather  exacting 
and  destructive  experience  had  perhaps  atrophied.  She 
could  not  telL 

Sometimes  Priscilla  divided  imagination  into  the  plain 
and  coloured  varieties.  If  that  were  possible,  she  would 
have  put  Stephen  cheerfully  among  the  plain  imagination. 
She  thought  that  might  be  a  rather  good  and  helpful 
division,  if  one  could  roughly  allot  to  poets,  as  of  course 
to  painters  of  equal  inspiration,  the  prismatic  imagina- 
tion, and  to  ideal  novelists  and  dramatists  a  limited  range 


184  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

of  colour  (including,  for  once,  black  and  white),  and  to 
— still  ideal — critics  a  predominance  of  black  and  white 
with  faint  reflections  and  refractions  of  colour  as  subtly 
merged  as  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  Clearly  her  plan 
would  not  have  applied  to  musicians,  unless,  as  it  has  been 
mischievously  alleged  by  ihose  with  a  too  fantastic  colour- 
sense  or  a  superfluity  of  time  for  the  manufacture  of 
theories,  every  sound  has  its  corresponding  colour 
value.  Nevertheless,  as  no  aesthetic  theory  will  ever 
embrace  all  the  arts,  she  had  no  hesitation  in  using  such 
definitions  as  these  for  the  purposes  of  her  own  private 
criticisms. 

Priscilla  thought  that  she  read  behind  Stephen's  dis- 
claimers simply  a  reaction  against  the  free  assumption 
of  imagination  by  all  fanciful  people  and  all  people  whose 
aesthetic  culture  is  highly  conventionalized  or  sophisti- 
cated, which  is  as  much  as  to  say  all  people  who  seemed 
to  Priscilla  to  lack  a  prime  originality  of  character.  She 
thought  fancy  was  often  like  skittishness — the  artificially 
preserved  naivete  of  the  child — and  a  palpable  makeshift 
for  something  more  ardently  desired.  She  herself  prized 
this  originality  above  all  things — the  careless  sureness  of 
character  which  need  neither  imitate  nor  vehemently  run 
counter  to  prevailing  convention.  It  was  to  her  defined 
by  a  wiser  person,  "feeling  the  ground  sufficiently  firm 
under  one's  feet  to  be  able  to  go  alone  ...  it  is  the 
strongest  possible  feeling  of  truth ;  for  it  is  a  secret  and 
instinctive  yearning  after  and  approximation  towards  it, 
before  it  is  acknowledged  by  others,  and  almost  before 
the  mind  knows  what  it  is."  That  was  where  she  found 
a  point  of  absolute  contact  with  Stephen,  who  also,  with- 
out believing  himself  to  be  original,  made  that  one  quality 
the  single  touchstone  of  life  and  literature.  So  far,  so 
good.  But  the  other  problem,  of  imagination,  as  it  applied 
to  Stephen  engrossed  her.  Stephen  himself  engrossed 
her.     She  did  not — as  women  are  supposed  to  do — study 


EPITOME  185 

to  please  him :  she  was  simply  given  over  to  the  attempt 
to  understand  him,  to  reach  the  springs  of  his  nature,  an 
absorbing  search.  And  it  made  her  hold  her  breath  with 
silent  laughter  to  learn  from  his  ejaculation  that  he  was 
similarly  engaged  in  trying  to  understand  her.  Surely 
they  would  both  succeed?  "Doesn't  it  seem  pathetic," 
she  announced  in  reply,  "to  think  of  us  groping  round 
each  other  like  wrestlers  by  a  sort  of  candle-light!" 
Stephen  had  merely  frowned  at  her ;  but  that  was  because 
he  too  was  absorbed.  Their  rapture  of  association  spent, 
they  fell  back  thus  upon  the  need  for  reimagining  each 
other,  as  all  whose  perceptions  of  the  world  around  them 
are  not  static  are  bound  to  be  in  constant  process  of  doing, 
so  that  the  chiaroscuro  is  always  varying  and  newly 
colouring  and  merging  in  a  way  most  magically  inter- 
esting. 

But  it  would  have  been  too  dreadful  if  this  obsession  of 
theirs,  however  pardonable  in  the  newly  revealed,  had 
spoiled  the  Moore  honeymoon.  It  did  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Their  excursions  went  on,  their  days  were  swift 
and  happy,  their  health  and  spirits  were  perfectly  normal. 
And  it  was  only  when  they  rested  that  they  became 
studious,  and  sometimes  when  they  were  talking  that 
there  flashed  across  Priscilla's  mind  some  perception  that 
startled  her  or  gave  her  delight.  She  was  always  having 
such  happy  thoughts,  and  such  plans.  Her  mind  fed 
upon  them.  One  led  to  another.  Sometimes  she  was 
thrilling  with  glee  at  the  pictures  she  had  created. 
Stephen  thought  her  plans  invariably  extravagant,  and 
warily  shook  his  head  over  some  of  them.  "Oh,  my 
dearest,  not  for  years!"  he  would  blankly  say.  "Your 
ideas  of  money  are  terrifying!"  To  which  Priscilla 
would  assuredly  answer  in  a  brief  and  all-sufficient 
rebuke  :  "You'll  see !"  She  had  made  her  plans.  It  was 
not  for  a  man  to  swamp  them  with  a  cold  douche,  however 
frequently  administered. 


186  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

iii 

What  these  plans  were  will  be  seen.  They  involved 
Stephen's  worldly  success,  and  his  acceptance  by  all  parts 
of  the  literary  world  as  a  critic  of  unquestionable 
originality.  She  did  not  want  him  all  his  life  to  write 
reviews  for  money;  but  she  wanted  his  opinions  to  gain 
wide  currency.  As  far  as  the  thought  of  money  went  she 
knew  that  she  had  much  to  learn.  She  was  afraid  of 
her  housekeeping.  But  that  would'  come.  Her  pre- 
occupation was  with  Stephen's  status.  For  the  securing 
of  this  she  would  have  been  prepared,  if  she  had  had 
money,  to  invest  it  in  him,  to  do  as  the  doctors  do,  when 
they  set  up  at  a  loss  for  several  years  a  big  house  in 
Harley  Street  from  which  to  derive  the  kudos  attached 
to  the  consultant's  standing.  She  was  ambitious  to  that 
extent  and  for  that  alone.  Against  her  impulse  to  plan 
his  career  she  had  unwillingly  to  place  Stephen's  manifest 
opposition.  He  was  willing  to  work  for  her;  he  wanted 
for  her  sake  to  attain  an  unassailable  position;  but  he 
would  not  consent  to  be  pushed  into  that  position.  David 
had  unobtrusively  done  something  in  the  way  of  intro- 
ductions and  commendation,  with  the  result  that  Stephen's 
work  had  been  lightened  and  made  more  remunerative  in 
the  past  year.  But  his  pride  was  enormous — if  that  were 
pride  which  well-wishers  supposed  to  be  obvious  blind- 
ness to  his  own  interests.  He  had  to  be  helped  without 
his  guessing  that  he  was  being  helped,  and  his  perception 
was  so  acute  that  this  was  almost  impossible.  Priscilla 
sometimes,  in  plotting,  felt  herself  a  Machiavelli,  until 
when  she  tried  with  the  most  cunning  caution  to  open 
that  path  which  should  lead  to  the  desired  and  so  desirable 
end,  Stephen,  reading  the  whole,  suppressed  it  ruthlessly 
with  his  very  final  "No !"  He  would  stand  alone.  That 
was  a  knell  to  many  a  scheme  dreamed  out  through  the 
long   winter   preceding   their    marriage.     Being   young. 


EPITOME  187 

Priscilla — as  Dorothy  had  done — failed  to  see  that  no 
good  man  can  be  driven  from  without.  It  was  not  enough 
that  she  should  plan  for  him :  she  must  all  the  while  seem 
to  trust  in  providence  and  in  Stephen's  own  strength. 
She  saw  that  he  was  like  a  child,  and  must  do  things 
by  himself,  even  though  a  protecting  hand  should  be 
ready  to  pounce  upon  his  skirts  in  the  nick  of  time  to 
save  him  from  falling.  She  gradually  understood. 
"What  children  men  are!"  she  thought  to  herself,  never 
dreaming  that  her  own  dreams  were  childish.  But  she 
had  learnt.  She  had  really  caught  at  the  idea  of  her 
relation  to  Stephen. 

That  came  soon  after  their  engagement,  before  she  had 
properly  accepted  realities.  Then,  during  a  talk,  Stephen 
had  made  another  thing  clear — a  thing  that  helped  very 
much  to  mature  her  view.  He  had  said:  "If  love  were 
everything,  the  alchemy  it  is  supposed  to  be,  life  would 
pass  in  a  dream.  So  it  can't  be  everything,  can  it!  I 
don't  think  you  and  I  ever  pretend  it  is,  though  we  regard 
it  as  a  sort  of  essential  key  to  everything.  It  depends 
on  everything,  running  through  it  and  carrying  it,  but 
horribly  fragile  all  the  time,  and  liable  to  fracture  in  any 
other  calamity.  .  .  .  I'm  so  sorry  to  be  obvious,  dear. 
.  .  .  It's  all  because  I  can  never  manage  to  say  what  I 
want  to.  What  I  want  to  get  at  is  this.  With  me  it's 
an  instinct  to  work  for  you,  to  make  a  home,  to  adore 
you,  and  in  the  end  to  smother  you  with  my  own  selfish- 
ness— to  keep  you  to  myself,  to  hate  those  who  claim 
your  affection  or  your  notice.  It's  a  common  instinct. 
You  see  the  consequences  of  it  everywhere  among  the 
middling  poor,  where  trivial  jealousy  is  the  chief  matri- 
monial bond.  You  and  I  are  wise  enough  to  spot  its 
activities  and  check  them.  On  the  other  hand,  I'm  like 
every  other  ambitious  young  man.  I  don't  know  what's 
going  to  happen  in  my  material  life.  I  may  succeed,  or 
I  mav  come  a  cropper.     What  Balzac  said — I  thought  it 


188  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

was  horribly  applicable  when  I  read  it  years  ago  in  his 
letters — was  something  like  this :  'I  want  a  woman  who 
shall  be  able  to  be  what  the  events  of  my  life  may  demand 
of  her — the  wife  of  an  ambassador  or  a  mere  housewife.' 
That's  every  ambitious  young  man's  need — a  wife  who 
can  entertain  a  Prime  Minister  or  bear  poverty  and  failure 
with  stoicism.  So  many  of  them  choose  wrong — marry 
vulgar,  pretty  girls  and  suffer  ever  after,  because  wrong 
marriage  destroys  them.  It  makes  me  think  how  lucky 
I  am;  but  it  makes  me  realize  that  I've  simply  got  to 
succeed,  or  everything's  lost."  Thinking  of  that,  even 
as  he  spoke,  he  repeated  with  a  sort  of  holy  horror: 
"Absolutely  everything!" 

Priscilla  had  quickly  said :  "Not  my  love,  Stephen !" 
And  her  extraordinary  generosity  in  tolerating  such  a 
tirade — which  after  a  few  months  he  could  not  have 
uttered — had  touched  Stephen  to  the  heart.  He  had 
stopped  dead.  He  was  not  a  common  bore.  It  was 
simply  that  he  was  bent  upon  bringing  everything  directly 
within  the  scope  of  his  intelligence.  It  might  have  been 
seen  that  he  was  inexperienced  in  love;  for  the  experi- 
enced in  love  do  not  talk  so,  but  leave  their  victims  to 
find  out  the  unspeakable  truths  of  human  tyranny.  And 
as  Priscilla  also  was  inexperienced,  it  pleased  her  to  hear 
him  speak  to  her  naturally  and  in  the  way  in  which  she 
knew  he  must  really  think.  She  might  have  preferred 
another,  more  ecstatic  manner:  who  could  know  that 
mystery?    Certainly  not  Priscilla,  who  loved  Stephen. 


IV 

She  came  to  know  a  great  deal  about  him  immediately 
after  their  marriage  that  she  c"ould  not  have  known  before, 
when  their  meetings  had  been  relatively  short  and  seldom 
private.  One  thing  she  realized  anew  was  his  quietness. 
He  was  very  quiet  in  everything,  and  had  no  need  to 


EPITOME  189 

clatter  or  to  talk.  Also,  when  he  worked  he  sat  very  still. 
Only  when  he  found  in  a  book  something  he  detested — 
such  as  the  rather  mulish  complaisance  of  old  men 
towards  dead  authors — he  exclaimed  with  disgust.  It 
made  Priscilla  think  of  David,  who  sometimes  carried 
a  foolish  book  about  with  him,  gloating  with  mischief 
over  its  foolishness  and  finding  people  to  share  in  his  glee 
as  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  at  the  university. 
Stephen  never  did  that.  He  did  not  need  to  share  his 
detestations  or  his  amusements,  but  only  to  expel  them. 
He  savagely  cried  out,  and  coldly  condemned  the  bad 
book,  exposing  with  unerring  cruelty  its  flabby  judg- 
ments, its  mistakes  of  fact,  its  ridiculous  deductions  and 
inductions.  Priscilla  always  felt  sorry.  There  might 
not  be  much  to  choose  between  David  and  Stephen  for 
charity;  but  Stephen's  almost  malignant  coldness  hurt 
her.  She  wondered  whether  it  could  ever  be  good  so 
unsparingly  to  condemn  the  feebleness  of  others.  One 
day  she  raised  that  point. 

"You  don't  seem  to  agree  with  Mr.  Pipps,  Stephen?" 
"Eh?  No:  he's  a  bad  fellow."  Then,  with  a  smile, 
he  asked:  "Did  I  yelp?  I  can't  help  being  angry  when 
these  chaps  get  so  sentimental.  Listen  to  this — from  a 
man  with  a  tremendous  reputation.  He's  been  quoting 
Spenser's  line,  The  noblest  mind  the  most  contentment 
has,'  and  he  goes  on:  'What  a  noble  line!  the  noblest,  I 
think,  in  all  literature.  Let  us  commit  it  to  heart,  repeat 
it  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and  it  will  cast  out  for  us 
all  the  devils,  aye,  all  the  swine  of  Pessimism.'-  Why, 
it's  Pecksniffian,  buzzing  with  hypocrisy;  and  I'm  bound 
to  say  so,  in  sheer  self-defence." 

"I  expect  Mr.  Pipps  will  be  angry  with  you." 
"Do  you  think  so?"     He  thought  for  a  moment 
he  reads  it.     I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"Don't  you  ever  think  of  the  effect  on  others  oi 
you  say?" 


190  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"Do  you  mean  on  Pipps  and  his  kidney?  Well,  it's 
a  question  of  hurting  them  or  encouraging  them.  I  don't 
want  to  hurt.  1  hate  hurting  people.  But  if  they're  silly, 
oughtn't  I  to  say  so  ?  I've  got  the  truth  to  defend.  Per- 
haps you  think  it's  only  my  particular  notion  of  the  truth? 
Very  likely  that's  true.  But  after  all  they  come  first. 
They  come  out  with  their  feeble  extension  lectures,  and 
get  crawled  over  by  the  provincial  papers.  Besides, 
they've  made  ignorant  people  suffer.  And  they've  taught 
them  ineradicable  half-truths.  It's  now  time  that  their 
bad  work  should  be  checked." 

"I  was  only  wondering  if  there  mightn't  be  a  sort  of 
vulgar,  ready-made  truth — as  much  as  ordinary  people 
can  bear — in  what  they  say.  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  be 
what  they  call  an  incurably  'superior'  critic,  far  above 
human  weakness." 

Stephen  shook  his  head.  "Father  always  says  that 
truth  has  many  facets,  and  that  even  the  fool  ought  to 
have  his  day." 

"Oh,  he  does !"  Stephen  said  dryly.  "He's  got  it.  I 
can't  stop  him  from  enjoying  his  power.  But  he  claims 
to-morrow  and  eternity  as  well.  That's  more  than  I  can 
stomach.  And  as  for  Mr.  Evandine's  compunction,  that's 
because  middle-aged  men  don't  want  to  be  troubled  to 
say  whether  a  thing  is  good  or  bad.  You  see,  your 
father's  a  very  kind  man;  but  he's  not  a  critic." 

"But  Stephen!  He's  supposed  to  be  a  beautiful 
critic !" 

"Not  a  real  critic.    He's  a  delightful  writer,  and  what 

you  might  call  a  delicate  appreciator.     He  enjoys  the 

bouquet  of   literature  with  a  perfectly  exquisite  taste. 

But  1  )t  no  more  grasp  of  literature — no  more  sense 

ity — than  that  chap  Agg  that  David's  always 


gave  a  serious  little  nod.     Her  comparative 
a  had  not  been  idle  in  the  last  year. 


EPITOME  191 

"I  know  it  matters  a  great  deal,"  she  said.  Their 
glances  met,  not  unhumorously,  although  both  honestly- 
felt  that  it  mattered  to  them  more  than  most  things 
did. 

"It  does,  I  assure  you,"  went  on  Stephen.  "Men  like 
your  father  are  responsible  for  establishing  a  canon. 
According  to  them  nothing  later  than  1850  is  literature; 
but  everything  previous  to  1850  is  to  be  treated  with 
exactly  the  same  seriousness.  It  may  be  Prior  or  Lang- 
land  or  Miss  Edgeworth  or  Shakespeare  or  Milton  or 
Parnell  or  some  discovery  never  remembered  before. 
They've  all  to  be  merged  in  a  sort  of  flat  equality,  and 
to  be  dipped  into  for  essays  and  fancies  as  one  dips  into 
a  bran-tub.  It's  not  true.  Our  business  is  to  get  out  of 
all  history  and  art  what  we  constructively  need — what  has 
a  real  original  value — and  send  the  rest  shuffling  into 
oblivion.  Cut  you  find  men  claiming  to  be  literary  critics 
who  are  mere  word-counters,  and  people  who  dribble 
over  musty  old  eighteenth-century  books  quarrelling  over 
whether  this  mouldy  thing  is  to  be  preferred  to  that  other 
mouldy  thing.  When  both  ought  to  be  in  the  dust-bin, 
and  the  scavengers  along  with  them.  It's  the  same  every- 
where, of  course.  The  impulse  to  hoard  everything — 
dirt,  rags,  diamonds,  wretched  crusts,  and  so  on.  It's 
all  common  enough,  wherever  one  looks.  I'm  inclined 
to  think  that  art  criticism  and  musical  criticism  may  be 
better :  I  mean,  there  are  really  a  few  people  biting  into 
the  truth.  But  in  literature — no.  Look  at  the  critical 
papers.  Where  are  their  standards?  One  column  con- 
tradicts another.  There's  no  attempt  to  grapple  with  a 
subject,  or  to  grasp  the  essential  parts  of  it.  There's  no 
room,  for  one  thing.  You  can  do  nothing  in  a  thousand 
words.  You  want  ten  thousand.  And  even  so  you've 
got  to  write  readable  articles  that  nod  and  beck  with 
courtesy  and  compliment  and  a  beastly  sort  of  mediocre 
conventionality." 


192  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

He  paused,  exhausted  by  his  harangue. 

"Oh,  but  Stephen !"  interrupted  Priscilla,  alarmed  by 
his  vehemence.     "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Exactly!"  he  cried  in  triumph.  "I'm  setting  an 
example.  And  as  I'm  very  conceited  I  make  a  great 
song  about  it  and  a  martyr  of  myself.  It's  quite  per- 
fectly clear." 

"Well,  it's  very  interesting;  and  it  seems  to  me  very 
plausible.  I  suppose  when  people  get  together  they  all 
fall  into  a  mist  and  conspire  to  tolerate  each  other's 
frailties,  and  that  everybody  gets  frailer  and  frailer  and 
more  and  more  tolerant  and  winking.  But  I  should  like 
to  hear  you  talk  about  it  to  father." 

"I  have  done  so.  He  says  I  shall  grow  more  tolerant. 
I've  told  him  that  I  suppose  I  shall  lose  heart.  How  many 
must  have  done  that !" 

"But  Stephen :  this  is  what  I  want  to  know.  Do  you 
really  mean  all  this,  and  does  father  mean  what  he  says  ? 
If  so,  why  doesn't  one  of  you  convince  the  other  one? 
If  one  of  you  is  right.  Or  is  it  a  game?  Or  is  one  of 
you  blind  ?  Are  you  convinced  ?  I  can't  understand  why 
if  a  man  proclaims  truth  he  shouldn't  be  blowing  a  sort 
of  last  trump  and  tumbling  down  all  muddleheadedness 
for  ever.     Is  there  any  truth  in  it?" 

"In  the  tirade?"  questioned  Stephen.  "Oh,  it's  true. 
Bitterly  true.  Except  that  I  make  it  seem  as  though 
there's  a  conspiracy  against  truth,  when  it's  only  a  lack 
of  the  scientific  spirit.  Your  father  and  I,  like  all  men 
who  disagree,  from  politicians  upwards,  are  simply  talk- 
ing about  different  things  and  vilifying  and  misrepre- 
senting one  another  to  support  our  own  clamour.  He 
says  I'm  a  puritan :  I  say  he's  a  latitudinarian.  Now  this 
is  a  very  interesting  thing.  There  are  certain  men — 
contemporaries,  we'll  say — whose  work  I  detest.  I  see 
absolutely  no  virtue  in  it  except  perverse  skill.  Some- 
times not  even  that.     A  year  ago,  before  I  met  David, 


EPITOME  193 

I  detested  the  men  as  well.  Never  having  seen  them,  of 
course.  I  thought  they  must  be  frightful  cads  and 
poseurs.  Now  David  has  introduced  me  to  some  of 
them.  They  certainly  detest  me  as  I  do  them — think 
me  ill-bred  (what  Colvin,  insufferably  talking  about 
Keats,  calls  'under-bred') ,  and  so  on.  But  they're  curious 
to  see  what  I'm  really  like — look  at  me  through  their 
eyelashes  and  when  other  people  are  talking  to  me.  And 
I  find  they're  extremely  nice  fellows,  kind,  courteous,  and 
as  generous  as  possible — really  keen  to  see  good  and  to 
praise  good  work  even  though  they  don't  approve  it.  Not 
all  of  them,  but  most.  I  admire  them  very  much.  When 
I'm  there  I  think  we're  all  part  of  a  formidable  body 
fighting  for  reality.  Yet  away  from  me,  buried  in  their 
stufries,  they're  capable  of  writing  blind,  ignorant,  ran- 
corous, splenetic  rubbish — sheer  dislikes  bolstered  up  with 
disingenuous  humbug.     You  see  what  I  mean?" 

"You  seem  to  mean,"  Priscilla  ventured,  "that  if  you 
were  always  their  tutor  they'd  reform,  and  say  what  you 
think." 

"I  really  mean,"  he  proceeded  to  explain,  frowning  at 
her  levity  but  giving  otherwise  no  sign  of  impatience, 
"that  they're  self-important  as  well  as  ignorant  senti- 
mentalists. When  they  talk  they  can  be  as  modest  and 
as  candid  as  anybody  could  wish.  When  they  write  they 
have  to  remember  their  canons,  and  their  commitments, 
and  their  reputations,  and  their  likes  and  dislikes,  and 
their  feuds,  and  the  feuds  of  their  friends.  .  .  ." 

"Upon  my  word !"  Priscilla  said.  "I  don't  wonder 
they  relapse  if  you  tell  them  home-truths  of  that  sort. 
I  expect  their  modesty  and  candour  is  a  mask  for  resent- 
ment. That  was  what  I  was  wondering — if  you  weren't 
rather  harsh,  Stephen.  ...  If  you  don't  blind  them  to 
your  Tightness  by  your  own  intolerance.  I  don't  suggest 
you're  not  right.  I  think  what  you  say  is  always  very 
convincing.     And  yet  sometimes  I'm  unwillingly  con- 


194  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

vinced.  I  mean  that  I  can't  answer  it;  but  that  I  wish 
I  could." 

Stephen  gave  signs  of  satisfaction. 

"That's  because  you're  honest,  my  dearest.  You  don't 
like  logic,  but  you  recognize  its  validity  in  criticism. 
These  men  aren't  quite  honest.  Don't  you  see,  their  minds 
slip  back  into  their  old  grooves  the  moment  they're  alone. 
I  can  see  the  jealous  looks  they  cast  on  their  paper  while 
they're  writing.  And  so  they  go  on  adding  to  the  confu- 
sion by  writing  their  own  impulsive  apologies  for  inaccu- 
rate judgment,  so  that  everybody  can  find  an  authority 
to  support  his  own  bad  taste.  That's  why  the  average 
man  is  ignorant  and  opinionated  about  literature.  All 
the  professional  critics  are  perverting  his  judgment 
through  sheer  ignorance  and  dread  of  innovation.  Their 
minds  are  sealed  against  contraries.  They  go  on  with 
their  tedious  babblings.  .  .  .  God  forgive  me,  I  do  it 
myself !"     He  was  aghast  at  his  own  discovery. 

"But  then  of  course  you're  right !"  urged  Priscilla,  with 
what  women  suppose  to  be  irony. 

"But  then  of  course  I'm  right,"  asserted  Stephen,  in  a 
grave  voice.  "Still,  you  see  the  difficulty,  and  the  harm 
men  like  your  father  can  do — who  say,  'we're  all  as  good 
as  one  another,  and  I'm  the  true  fount  of  wisdom.'  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  see  that  I  have  a  very  conceited  man  for 
a  husband,"  Priscilla  said.  "But,  my  dear,  I'm  quite  sure 
he  can  hold  his  own  with  the  others,  who  are  quite  as 
conceited  and  not  so  honest." 

Stephen  was  thoughtful  for  a  time.    At  last  he  said : 

"I  admit  I'm  conceited.  I  don't  mind  being  conceited, 
because  it's  a  healthy  state.  But  I  don't  like  you  to  think 
me  conceited." 

"That's  because  you  don't  know  what  you  want, 
Stephen.  You  don't  want  me  to  adore  you,  and  you 
don't  want  me  to  think  you  conceited.  You  want  me  to 
love  you  very  scientifically;  and  it  can't  be  done.     You 


EPITOME  195 

want  to  dictate  to  me  the  way  I  should  think  of  you,  and 
it's  foreign  to  me." 

He  acknowledged  the  truth  of  what  she  said. 

"Yes.  I  want  everything  my  own  way.  I  admit  it. 
I'm  impatient,  and  that  means  I'm  unjust." 

"You're  also  rather  cruel." 

Stephen  thought  for  some  moments  over  that  accusa- 
tion. It  made  him  think  of  Minnie  Bayley  with  a  natural 
but  perhaps  a  rather  cold-blooded  detachment. 

"You  don't  mean,  to  you?"  he  presently  inquired. 

"In  criticism."  It  made  his  brows  lift.  "You  don't 
realize  that  your  normal  way  of  thinking  of  things  isn't 
everybody's  way ;  and  I  think  that  people  who  don't  realize 
that  you  criticize  yourself  quite  as  unsparingly  just  have 
their  enthusiasms  corroded,  and  nothing  given  them  in 
their  place.  You  take  the  heart  out  of  them,  Stephen, 
with  your  love  of  a  rather  frosty  truth." 

This  was  plain  speaking!  But  Stephen  was  deeply 
interested,  and  was  not  at  all  concerned  with  the  purely 
personal  aspect  as  it  might  have  affected  his  vanity. 

"Do  you  find  it  so?"  he  asked.  "I  mean,  as  far  as 
your  own  feeling  goes." 

"No;  you're  kind  to  me.  I'm  only  thinking  of  the 
effect  on  others.  I  wouldn't  have  you — to  me — one  little 
bit  different.  You  know  you're  everything  to  me.  Oh, 
Stephen,  I'm  rather  tired  of  this  talk,  though  I  do  think 
it's  very  interesting.  I  feel  I'm  not  wise  enough  to  chal- 
lenge you  on  your  own  ground,  and  that  you  have  to  be 
considerate  to  me.  But  I  think  a  lot  about  this;  and  I 
wish  you'd  be  more  tolerant  of  conventional  stupidity; 
because  that  seems  to  me  pitiable  rather  than  any- 
thing else.  And  you  seem  to  think  it  criminal.  I 
should  have  thought  you  must  be  wrong  in  simply  attack- 
ing it." 

"You  can't  reform  by  pity,  dear.  All  sorts  of  people 
must  have  tried." 


196  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"You  must  follow  your  own  course."  She  spoke  hesi- 
tatingly, as  though  the  admission  was  forced. 

"Once  you  shrink  you  fall  among  conventions.  They're 
like  gins.  However,  we'll  leave  it  at  that.  I'm  glad  we 
talked.     I  like  to  know  exactly  what  you  think." 

"I  wish  I  could  tell  you !" 

"Do  you  mean  that  what  you  think  is  worse  than  you 
can  say?" 

"The  idea!  You  know  how  impossible  it  is  to  talk 
your  thoughts.  What  you  say  is  only  the  skeleton  of 
what  you  think.  And  in  this  there's  so  much  one  can't 
express.  In  everything,  for  that  matter.  I  wish  I  could 
express  myself.  That's  what  everybody  wishes,  I  expect. 
I  envy  all  artists  very  much,  because  they're  expressing 
themselves  all  the  time,  like  the  skylark  and  the  nightin- 
gale " 

"And  the  donkey  and  the  peacock,  no  doubt.  I  expect 
they're  only  skeletonizing." 

They  both  shook  heads  lugubriously  at  the  notion  of 
this  fundamental  shortcoming.  Then  Priscilla  began  to 
laugh;  and  although  Stephen  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
laughing  he  also,  as  he  returned  to  the  book  which  had 
provoked  this  colloquy,  allowed  a  smile  to  steal  into  his 
eyes  and  to  soften  them.  His  glance  at  Priscilla  was  one 
of  amusement,  but  it  was  also  one  of  gratitude.  She, 
with  a  curious  feeling  of  exhilaration,  rose  to  prepare 
their  little  supper.  Stephen,  for  his  part,  thought  that 
possibly  artists  were  those  who  deliberately — and  not 
involuntarily — skeletonized. 


At  last  they  came  to  the  end  of  their  honeymoon,  and 
with  rueful  hearts  watched  the  last  day  coming  nearer 
and  nearer.  As  if  to  show  sympathy  with  their  spirits, 
but  in  a  blundering  way,  the  weather  took  a  turn  for  the 


EPITOME  197 

worse;  and  instead  of  bright  days  that  grew  more  in- 
tensely hot  until  the  sun  began  to  decline  there  came  days 
when  south-westerly  winds  brought  clouds  and  gushes  of 
rain  and  sudden  gusts  that  tore  like  storms  among  the 
trees  by  the  bungalow.  The  change  was  unlooked-for, 
and  it  intensified  their  gloomy  sense  of  approaching  loss. 
They  would  go  to  the  streaming  back  window  and  look 
across  a  turnip-field  to  the  soaking  down;  they  would 
look  to  the  northern  lowlands  and  see  nothing  but  a  sheet 
of  falling  rain  so  fine  that  it  might  have  been  a  mist. 

To  add  to  their  discomfort  there  came  from  the  old 
man — two  days  before  the  end,  when  the  weather  was 
April-like  in  its  uncertainty — a  second  menacing  letter, 
which  Stephen  held  up  to  Priscilla  before  destroying  it. 

"My  father  is  trying  to  bring  himself  to  my  notice," 
he  said.  "This  letter  is  going  to  be  destroyed  unread. 
I  only  opened  it  in  case  the  old  man  had  returned  his 
postal  order.  But  the  old  man,  although  he's  a  kind  of 
Irishman,  has  a  great  fund  of  prudence." 

"You  always  speak  of  him  with  dislike ;  but  you  never 
tell  me  why.    Dorothy  is  much  more  illuminating." 

"Yes.    She  would  be." 

"Dorothy  says  he's  one  of  the  worst." 

"You  see  what  a  shady  family  you've  married  into." 
There  was  bitterness  in  his  tone;  not  at  what  he  was 
saying,  but  at  the  thought  that  prompted  the  speech. 

"One  day  I  expect  you'll  tell  me  why  you  dislike  the 
old  man.  And  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  have  done 
about  Roy,  though  I've  hardly  ever  seen  him." 

"Roy,"  said  Stephen  reflectively,  "is  a  difficulty.  It's 
true  that  he's  at  what's  called  (by  the  old  man)  a  dan- 
gerous age;  but  all  ages  are  very  dangerous.  Roy's  in 
a  city  office  getting  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  He's  not 
worth  more,  and  he  doesn't  seem  to  show  any  special 
aptitude  as  yet.  I  shall  see  him  pretty  often,  of  course; 
and  I'd  like  him  to  come  and  live  near  us,  but  not  with 


198  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

us.    By  the  way,   it's  cleared   off  a  bit,   so  we  might 
start?" 

They  put  on  light  coats  and  went  out,  Priscilla's  arm 
in  his,  tightly  locked  to  withstand  the  staggering  breeze. 
The  sky  had  partially  cleared,  and  showed  a  lovely  blue 
behind  hurrying  clouds.  They  plodded  up  a  greasy  path, 
feeling  the  air  in  their  lungs,  and  hearing  a  sudden  ven- 
turesome skylark  thrilling  as  he  mounted  above  them  into 
the  incomparable  blue.  Both  were  conscious  of  a  fresh 
exhilaration,  an  impulse  to  fly. 

"Yes  .  .  ."  resumed  Stephen,  who  was  tenacious  of 
memory.  "We  were  talking — or  rather,  I'm  afraid  /  was 
talking — about  Roy.  You  see  he's  too  old  to  be  looked 
after,  and  not  quite  old  enough  to  look  after  himself. 
And  he's  not  particularly  stable." 

"Dorothy  says  she  knows  more  about  him  than  you 
do,"  panted  Priscilla,  checking  him  upon  the  hill  so  that 
she  might  recapture  her  lost  power  to  breathe.  "But  that 
she  can't  express  it.    She's  said  that  more  than  once." 

"Yes.  Dorothy  guesses  a  lot,  and  she's  awfully  quick. 
So  very  likely  she  does  know  more.  He's  quite  an  at- 
tractive boy,  don't  you  think?  Granting  that  his  voice 
is  hoarse  and  his  fingers  nicotined." 

"I  thought  he  was  very  nice;  but  as  if  he  weren't  very 

happy." 

"I  don't  think  boys  ever  are  very  happy  at  his  age. 
You  see  he's  drifting;  and  he's  just  becoming  seriously 
conscious  of  his  sex.  He's  half  a  man,  but  he  knows  that 
he's  still  a  kid.  Also,  he  probably  wants  to  go  to  theatres, 
to  bet,  to  have  a  bicycle,  and  smoke  and  drink  and  dress 
smartly — and  he  hasn't  got  the  money  to  do  it  with. 
If  the  old  man  had  any  moral  sense  Roy  would  have  all 
these  things." 

"Is  it  worse  for  Roy  than  it  was  for  you?"  Priscilla 
asked,  rather  defiantly. 

"I  say,  isn't  that  beautiful !    But  it  looks  as  if  a  storm 


EPITOME  199 

was  coming."  For  a  moment  they  stopped,  breathing 
hard  after  their  struggle  with  the  hill  and  the  wind.  He 
had  drawn  attention  to  the  remarkable  sweep  of  the  blue- 
grey  clouds  that  were  rushing  towards  them  from  the 
south-west.  The  clouds  seemed  to  be  carried  by  an 
irresistible  wind,  and  those  that  were  nearer  the  earth 
were  torn  into  dispersed  fleeces  or  absorbed  into  the 
larger  mass  before  the  eye  had  properly  seized  their 
earlier  relation.  The  Moores  slowly  pivoted,  so  that  they 
could  see,  a  very  little  Way  below  them,  the  white  roof 
of  the  bungalow  against  the  wan  grey-green  background 
of  down  and  field  and  tree.  Then  Stephen,  reverting  to 
their  talk,  went  on  as  they  stood  there  in  a  temporary 
shelter  below  the  top  of  the  down,  which  was  besieged 
by  the  tumultuous  winds,  "I  shouldn't  like  Roy  to  have 
the  time  I  had,  because  I  can  never  understand  how  I 
lived  through  it.  I  must  be  very  strong,  and  even  so  I 
feel  as  though  it  had  spoilt  me.  .  .  .  That's  what  you 
mean  by  intolerance.  It  has  so  eaten  into  my  bones  that 
I  can't  help  hating  with  a  profound  hate  all  those  who 
take  the  poor  for  granted,  and  legislate  accordingly.  I 
hate  the  governing  class  in  England,  with  its  vile  demo- 
cratic professions,  so  much  that  if  there  were  a  civil  war 
between  workers  and  legislators  I'd  give  my  life  for  the 
workers  as  the  one  possible  thing.  Because  though  I 
suffered  myself  it  was  never  that  that  destroyed  me,  but 
the  suffering  of  Dorothy  and  Roy — the  hideous  useless- 
ness  and  aimlessness  of  the  whole  business.  However, 
you  don't  want  to  hear  my  mouthings  on  such  things: 
they're  particularly  out  of  place  on  a  honeymoon.  What 
I  was  going  to  say  was  that  Roy's  had  quite  a  bad  enough 
time  as  it  is.  In  me  it  was  bitter,  but  it  was  toughening. 
I'm  all  through,  though  I  admit  that  the  consequences 
may  be  bad,  bitter  with  hatred  of  things  I  dislike.  Roy 
simply  doesn't  understand.  He  knew  what  it  was  when 
I  couldn't  give  him  any  bread,  or  when  we  made  soup  for 


200  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

three  out  of  a  penny  packet  of  desiccated  vegetables  (I 
suppose  it  was  vegetable,  at  least) ;  but  he  wasn't  made 
to  think,  as  I  was,  that  in  a  democracy  such  a  state  of 
things  ought  never  to  exist.  He  took  it  for  granted. 
And  of  course  *my  half  looking  after  him  has  been  a 
mistake  in  one  way,  because  it's  undermined  his  self- 
reliance  without  giving  him  anything  in  place  of  it — any 
standards,  I  mean.  He's  had  a  little  more  education  than 
I  had ;  but  it's  only  a  pseudo-education,  that  has  confused 
his  mind  instead  of  training  it.  And  it  had  to  be  done 
on  a  parrot-system  that  gives  way  immediately  the  par- 
ticular rote  is  interrupted,  like  loss  of  memory  in  playing 
drama.  It's  when  I  think  that  he  might  have  been  of  use 
to  the  community  that  I  feel  so  savage.  I'm  not  only 
selfish,  really.  But  there  is  talk — always  among  academic 
sociologists — about  the  debt  of  every  man  to  the  State 
for  its  protection ;  and  that  seems  to  me  to  be  such  cant. 
The  State  never  protected  Roy.  I  protected  him,  and  I 
had  such  poor  opportunities  that  of  course  I  made  a  mess 
of  it.  Protecting  his  body,  I  couldn't — even  if  I'd  had 
the  sense  to  do  it  I  hadn't  the  time — I  couldn't  train  his 
mind.     Besides  the  old  man  was  a  horrible  influence." 

Priscilla  listened  with  great  attention  as  he  spoke,  her 
eyes  lowered  and  her  head  bent.  She  knew  he  must  be 
telling  her  thoughts  long  hoarded,  thoughts  that  were 
the  result  of  his  real  experience ;  and  what  he  said  helped 
her  to  understand  a  little  more  of  the  life  that  had  made 
him  what  he  was.     She  said  thoughtfully : 

"Stephen,  dear :  all  you  say  moves  me  very  much.  You 
know  that  as  far  as  I  can  understand  I  do  sympathize 
— though  I  admit  what  you've  always  said,  that  nobody 
who  hasn't  been  through  it  can  quite  realize  what  that 
kind  of  hardship  means.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  it  has 
very  likely  made  you  all  very  loyal  to  each  other.  Dorothy 
said  Roy  was  very  fond  of  you,  for  example.  I  thought 
that  meant  a  great  deal." 


EPITOME  201 

"It's  only  that  the  old  man  was  the  common  enemy. 
That  drew  us  all  together.  Poverty  doesn't  draw  people 
together :  it  pinches  and  warps  them.  But  it  draws  people 
together  to  suffer  from  some  outside  force.  Poverty  is 
a  bond  that  binds  poor  people  together  against  rich  people 
— or  sufferers  against  the  selfish.  We  had  to  protect 
ourselves  and  suffer  the  old  man.  Nowadays  the  old  man 
pets  Roy — praises  him  at  my  expense — and  so  Roy  is 
drawing  away  from  me.  I  wish  I  could  keep  him;  but 
I  can't  preach  at  him  and  say  the  things  he  wants  are  bad. 
And  he  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  enthusiasm  that  I  could 
reach  him  through.  He's  made  his  own  friends,  sees  the 
old  man  well  dressed  and  very  likely  better-tempered  than 
I  am.  It's  only  natural  that  he  should  go  obstinately  in 
his  own  courses.  But  I'm  sure  he's  got  character  if  it 
were  given  a  chance." 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  help,"  said  Priscilla,  thereby 
taking  the  first  step  to  Roy's  salvation.  "Don't  you  think 
it's  the  sort  of  thing  I  might  do?" 

"You  shall,"  returned  Stephen  emphatically,  struck  by 
the  idea.  "It's  a  splendid  notion."  After  a  pause  he 
resumed  in  another,  almost  appealing  tone,  like  an  apolo- 
getic boy :  "He's  one  person  you  must  help.  There's 
another  also  .  .  .  that  I  should  like  you  to  help.  And 
yet  .  .  ."     He  faltered.     "I  expect  it's  impossible." 

"Oh,  tell  me!"  Priscilla,  flushed  with  the  thought  of 
usefulness,  pressed  a  little  closer,  looking  up  into  his  face. 
Stephen  averted  his  eyes,  looking  fixedly  at  the  horizon. 

"Later.  Not  now.  It's  a  woman.  I'm  afraid  it's 
unthinkable.  I  wish  to  goodness  I  knew  more  about 
human  nature.  .  .  .  Phiou!  Here's  the  rain  again!" 
His  voice  had  almost  a  tone  of  relief.  His  face,  upturned 
to  the  clouds  and  the  wild  slanting  rain  that  had  begun 
to  pour  down  upon  them  from  a  sky  of  level  grey,  was 
much  lightened.  "Hurry!  It's  a  storm!  Hallo,  look 
at  that  chap  down  there.     He  must  be  drenched." 


202  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

They  hurried,  watching  as  they  ran  the  man  whose 
path  would  presently  join  their  own.  He  was  a  tall  fellow 
in  a  Norfolk  jacket  and  grey  flannel  trousers,  and  the 
rain  had  absolutely  soaked  his  clothing,  which  clung  in 
a  black  hideousness  to  his  legs  and  shoulders.  He  had 
evidently  met  the  storm  early,  and  continued  in  its  press- 
ing company.  They  could  see  his  light-coloured  socks 
all  soaked  and  splashed  with  mud,  and  his  cap  heavy 
with  wet. 

"Shall  we  shelter  him?"  Stephen  asked.  "This  is  a 
soaker,  and  it's  going  to  keep  on." 

"If  you  like.  He  looks  attractively  dauntless.  But 
he'll  need  a  change  of  clothes,"  warned  Priscilla,  who 
now  knew  all  about  Stephen's  not  very  exhaustive  ward- 
robe. 

"I'll  lend  him  my  blue  serge.     He's  in  distress." 

"I  wonder  if  he'd  agree  to  keep  it !"  Priscilla  laughed, 
as  though  that  thought  was  too  good  to  be  true. 

"You  don't  seem  to  like  my  clothes,"  grumbled 
Stephen.     "To  me  they're  old  friends." 

"I  feel  they're  rather  stickers,  Stephen.  Barnacles. 
Time-servers.  I  think  they  ought  to  be  pensioned,  or 
superannuated."  Priscilla,  warmed  by  the  run,  and 
stung  by  the  wind  and  rain,  felt  perfectly  naughty. 

"Well,  shall  I  ?     He's  getting  very  near  now." 

They  looked  for  the  first  time  scrutinizingly  at  the 
bedraggled  man,  who  now  strode  so  much  nearer,  making 
use  of  a  heavy,  polished  walking-stick  to  keep  his  footing 
on  the  slippery  road.  He  was  very  erect  and  well  built, 
his  shoulders  thrown  back  against  the  pelting  storm.  He 
was  very  fair,  and  deeply  tanned,  as  from  outdoor  life. 

"Oh,  Stephen!  It's  Hilary!"  gasped  Priscilla,  almost 
stopping,  and  tugging  Stephen's  arm.  It  was  too  late  to 
withdraw.  They  were  carried  right  on,  sliding  on  the 
soil,  and  keeping  upright  only  by  great  effort. 

"Can  you  tell  me "  called  the  man,   looking  up 


EPITOME  203 

through  the  rain  to  where  they  scrambled  upon  the  slightly 
higher  ground  above  the  rough  roadway.  His  eyes  were 
keen  and  bright,  like  those  of  a  hunter  or  a  soldier,  and 
his  white  teeth  glistened  like  polished  ivory. 

"That  settles  it.  We  must!"  said  Stephen,  under  his 
breath.     "Hello!     I  say!" 

"Oh  dear  me,  oh  dear  me!"  whispered  Priscilla  to 
herself,  for  this  instant  a  coward. 

"What's  his  surname?  .  .  .  Hallo,  Badoureau!" 

"Moore!     Priscilla!" 

The  recognition  swept  over  Hilary  Badoureau — the 
recognition  and  the  meaning  of  their  presence  together 
and  in  this  place.  The  shock  was  obvious.  His  teeth 
met  sharply. 

"We're  just  home,"  said  Stephen.  "You  must  come 
in  and  dry  yourself." 

"No  .  .  .  Really  no.    Thanks  very  much.    How " 

"Please!"  Stephen,  by  such  means  silencing  every 
protest,  whether  polite  or  profound,  led  the  way  through 
the  trees  to  the  bungalow. 

It  was  all  so  quick  and  casual  that  he  might  have  been 
a  neighbour  whom  they  slightly  knew.  In  silence  they 
trudged  through  the  dripping  asparagus-fern  that  spread 
out  across  the  pathway  in  unchecked  luxuriance,  and  out 
into  the  surrounding  roughly  planted  garden.  At  the 
door  of  the  bungalow  Stephen  halted  to  allow  the  others 
to  precede  him. 

All  the  time  Priscilla  had  not  spoken.  Her  heart  had 
begun  to  beat  faster.  She  could  not  speak;  she  only 
knew  that  this  meeting  was  fateful  and  that  she  would 
have  given  much  to  avert  it.  She  was  passionately  thank- 
ful that  Stephen  showed  himself  as  completely  master  of 
the  situation. .  She  saw  that,  whatever  happened,  he  could 
keep  his  head  and  behave  with  dignity.  The  impassivity 
of  both  men  was  a  source  of  secret  wonder  to  her.  She 
had  never  seen  men  in  danger,  never  seen  enemies  meet, 


204  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

or  friends  after  a  long  parting,  or  she  would  have  been 
more  ready  to  understand  that  men — and  women  no  less 
— have  generally,  unless  they  are  of  the  few  cowards, 
self-command  when  it  is  essential.  She  followed  Stephen 
with  her  eyes  even  while  she  removed  her  mackintosh 
and  little  woolen  hat. 

He  led  the  guest  to  the  bedroom,  came  out  again, 
returned  with  water,  and  re-emerged  with  portions  of 
Hilary's  clothing,  which,  with  methodical  precision,  he 
proceeded  to  wring  and  to  array  before  the  kitchen  fire 
so  that  they  might  dry. 

It  was  Priscilla's  part  to  lay  the  table  for  tea.  It  was 
extraordinary  that  Hilary  should  be  her  first  guest! 
Anxiety  regarding  his  personal  attitude  was  lost  in  her 
pride  at  being  a  wife  and  hostess.  Her  genuine  self- 
respect  was  involved  in  Hilary's  sufficient  entertainment. 
Be  sure  she  felt  very  housewifely,  and  with  a  quick  eye 
saw  that  all  was  in  place,  while  with  her  quick  mind  she 
surveyed  the  whole  question  of  the  meal  with  the  swift 
decisiveness  of  a  great  general  and  a  young  housekeeper. 


VI 

"I  don't  know  why  it  should  be  an  impulse  to  give 
drowned  people  tea,"  Priscilla  said  as  Hilary  appeared — 
seeming,  as  it  were,  to  stick  out  of  the  famous  blue  serge 
suit.  "But  it's  always  done,  and  here  it  is,  all  poured 
out.     Sit  down  quick!" 

"Thanks.  This  is  a  perfect  haven  of  refuge,  and  jolly 
cosy !    It's  splendid  of  you  to  look  after  me  like  this !" 

As  he  took  the  cup  Hilary  threw  back  his  head.  He 
still  drawled  a  little,  the  sweep  of  his  brilliant  yellow  hair 
was  the  same;  yet  he  was  different,  as  Priscilla  instantly 
saw.  There  was  no  constraint  in  his  manner.  If  there 
was  any  change  there  it  was  in  the  direction  of  greater 
ease.    She  thought  his  eyes  might  be  sterner,  but  they  had 


EPITOME  205 

always  had  a  rather  frosty  brightness.  They  looked  very 
straight  and  boldly — not,  as  Stephen's  did,  as  if  they  were 
penetrating  the  surface  and  obeying  some  reflective  im- 
pulse, but  as  if  they  marked  Hilary's  confidence  in  his 
power  to  take  and  to  destroy.  That  was  the  impression 
of  his  mouth  also,  which  was  both  full  and  firm,  the  lips 
often  drawn  away  from  the  teeth  in  a  set  smile  which 
did  not  extend  to  the  eyes.  She  thought  him  improved, 
very  manly. 

"You  got  rather  caught,  didn't  you  ?"  Stephen  asked. 

"Yes."  Hilary's  attention  was  now  turned  upon  his 
successful  rival,  his  mouth  still  smiling  and  his  head 
thrown  back  in  a  conventional  assumption  of  interest. 
"Started  out  to  walk  from  Brighton  to  Eastbourne  over 
the  Downs.  When  one's  started  there's  no  chance  of 
picking  up  a  train  anywhere." 

"One  of  the  tumbrils,"  suggested  Priscilla. 

"Oh,  the  omnibuses  ?  Are  they  running  ?  I  must  have 
seen  one  or  two  of  them.  Thought  I'd  rather  walk. 
How's  David  ?    I've  been  out  of  England  since  February." 

" Where' ve  you  been  ?"  Priscilla  realized  that  he  must 
regard  this  stumble  across  them  as  a  contretemps. 
"David's  well  enough." 

"Italy  in  the  spring — Tuscany.  Then  I  went  up  to 
Venice  and  into  Austria.  Back  through  Germany.  I 
went  from  Vienna  to  Leipzig;  but  Leipzig's  a  dull  place 
— not  half  so  ripping  as  Dresden,  d'you  think?  Where 
you  go  hat  in  hand  to  see  the  dullest  painting  in  the 
world."  He  turned  to  Stephen,  who  shook  his  head  to 
show  that  he  had  never  been  there.  "Well  then  from 
Leipzig  to  Berlin  and  through  to  Brussels.  I've  been 
wandering  about  in  Flanders — among  all  those  beautiful 
old  towns — Ypres  and  Louvain,  and  so  on.  Jolly  inter- 
esting— what?  Then  through  the  North  of  France  to 
Paris  and  Havre.  Southampton,  and  to  the  Isle  of  Wight 
— Pettigrew's;  came  along  the  Channel  in  Pettigrew's 


206  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

yacht  (you  know  Pettigrew,  Priscilla?  He  was  up  with 
David  and  me)  .  .  .  yes,  as  far  as  Brighton.  And  here 
I  am.  Five  months  away.  I've  got  an  aunt  at  East- 
bourne.   I'm  not  sure  if  she  lets  lodgings  there  .  .  ." 

"Poor  boy:  he's  nervous,"  thought  Priscilla,  at  this 
execrable  attempt  at  a  jest.  Aloud  she  said:  "We're 
going  back  to  London  to-morrow.  We've  got  a  cunning 
little  cottage  in  the  highest  part  of  Hampstead.  You 
can't  get  such  things  as  a  rule,  so  we're  very  triumphant. 
It's  terribly  small ;  but  it's  perfectly  charming.  You  must 
come  and  see  it." 

"Thanks,  awfully."  Hilary  brightened.  That  was  her 
forgiveness.  How  kind  she  was!  "It's  frightfully  nice 
of  you." 

Stephen's  face  fell.  He  almost  shook  his  head.  Pris- 
cilla could  see  him. 

"Tea,  Steve?"  How  malicious  she  became!  The 
diminutive  worked  on  Hilary  and  reduced  his  elation.  He 
hastened  on  in  order  to  stamp  out  from  his  consciousness 
the  thought  of  that  endearing  abridgment. 

"How's  David?    Wasting  his  time?" 

"He  says  he's  very  busy.  Apparently  his  firm  is 
inundated  with  manuscripts.  He  claims  to  read  most 
of  them." 

"Poor  chap!  See,  you  write,  don't  you?"  Hilary 
turned  again  to  Stephen,  with  an  air  that  suggested  that 
he  strove  condescendingly  to  notice  his  host  and  to 
assume  a  quite  unthinkable  interest  in  his  works. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  Can  I  pass  your  cup?"  Stephen's 
mouth  was  grimly  smiling.  He  was  determined  not  to  be 
patronized,  even  by  a  guest.  "And  where  else  have  you 
been?     Did  you  go  to  Munich?" 

"No.  I  went  to  Prague.  They  say  that  in  the  guide- 
books the  Germans  and  Austrians  deliberately  damn 
Prague  as  insanitary,  so  that  people  won't  go  there.  It's 
perfectly  beautiful.     Pretty  mean,  isn't  it!" 


EPITOME  207 

"But  I  thought  it  was  a  part  of  Austria?"  Priscilla 
asked. 

"Yes;  but  it's  in  Bohemia  first;  and  the  Czechs  are 
Slavs,  you  know.  They're  one  of  the  parts  of  the 
Monarchy  that  keep  the  Teutons  and  the  Magyars  on 
the  go.  Austria-Hungary's  full  of  Slav  patches  and 
hostile  races.  I  can't  help  thinking  it'll  blow  up  some 
day,  for  that  reason." 

"D'you  mean  a  revolution?"  asked  Stephen,  appre- 
ciatively. 

"I  should  think  so.  Simply  disintegrate.  The  Czechs 
are  a  wonderful  people.  It's  a  scandal  to  see  them 
hemmed  in  as  they  are.  .  .  ." 

"Isn't  Austria  the  place  where  there  are  all  the  Court 
scandals?"  asked  Priscilla.  "I  can't  help  thinking  that 
Ruritania  was  really  in  Austria.  And  all  these  princi- 
palities in  books.  It  must  be  rather  a  wicked  place,  I 
should  suppose." 

Hilary  and  Stephen  exchanged  an  amused  glance, 
and  both  stiffened  again,  like  dogs  that  suspect  each 
other. 

"You  say  you're  going  to  Hampstead?"  Hilary  in- 
quired, turning  to  Priscilla. 

"We  shall  be  within  reach  of  mother  and  father ;  and 
handy  for  town.  We  shan't  belong,  I  should  think,  quite 
to  the  Hampstead  intellectuals." 

"Ah,  one  hears  they're  rather  weird.  Curious  how  a 
place  gets  full  of  people  of  one  sort.    Chelsea,  now." 

"Stephen  refused  to  live  there.  He's  rather  ashamed 
of  Hampstead.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  because  he 
despises  the  Hampstead  intellects  or  because  he  thinks 
they'll  look  down  on  me.  I  suppose  they're  really  very 
decent  people." 

"Those  little  decencies  you  know — the  little  Clodds 
— live  there,  don't  they?" 

"Ethel  was  one  of  my  bridesmaids." 


208  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Hilary  winced:  but  his  smile  continued. 

"Well,  they're  in  the  Hampstead  group,  aren't  they? 
Typically  decent  people,  but  perhaps  living  at  Hampstead 
doesn't  necessarily  demoralize  you  into  decency.  I've 
met  that  chap  Skeffington  who  lives  there.  He  seems 
quite  indecent.  The  man  that  writes  lugubrious  novels 
where  the  hero  prowls  about  the  Heath  at  all  hours  of 
the  night." 

"Do  you  know  him?  Oh,  do  bring  him  to  see  us.  He's 
Stephen's  favourite — only — novelist." 

"Is  he  a  young  man?"  Stephen  asked,  suddenly 
interested.  "I  have  rather  liked  his  work.  I  don't  know 
about  its  quality;  but  I  think  he  knows  what  he's 
describing." 

"About  thirty?  They're  all  that,  you  know.  It's  the 
age.  There  are  three  ages,  according  to  David.  No, 
four.  Twenty-three,  thirty,  forty-five,  and  seventy-two." 
Hilary  laughed  as  he  ticked  them  off.  "Skeffington's  a 
rather  eagly,  facetious  young  man,  with  an  immense 
tongue  that  wags  at  both  ends.  A  huge  voracious  talker. 
I  think  I've  only  met  him  with  David.  I  only  mentioned 
him  because  I  knew  he  lived  at  Hampstead." 

"Well,  bring  him  to  see  us!"  commanded  Priscilla. 
"Simply  because  we'd  like  to  see  him." 

Then  they  talked  of  other  things,  until  tea  was  finished 
and  Stephen  went  to  look  after  the  drying  clothes.  He 
found  them  still  clammy.  The  wind  was  whirling  and 
moaning  about  the  bungalow,  rattling  the  cowl  on  its 
chimney;  and  the  rain  had  gone.  The  evening  was 
greying  the  sky,  and  the  distances  were  all  misty.  He 
came  back  into  the  sitting-room,  and  Priscilla  was  sure 
that  he  felt  a  thrill  when  he  saw  Hilary  sitting  there  in 
his  blue  serge  suit.  The  suit  in  any  case  looked  so  care- 
worn and  shiny;  and  Hilary  looked  so  absurd  in  it,  so 
like  the  pictures  of  Oliver  Twist  or  Smike  with  their 
heads  and  wrists  and  ankles  stretching  far  out  of  insuffi- 


EPITOME  209 

cient  garments,  that  Stephen's  grim  expression  could 
hardly  fail  to  be  softened  by  a  kind  of  bitter  sympathy. 

"Another  hour,"  he  said.    "Do  you  smoke  a  pipe?" 

"Thanks,  no.  I've  got  cigarettes  in  my  coat.  At 
least " 

Priscilla  also  noticed  that  Hilary's  speech,  when 
addressed  directly  to  Stephen,  was  more  curt  and  less 
considerate  than  his  speech  to  herself.  She  did  not  like 
that,  but  she  excused  it  on  the  ground  of  unsuccessful 
jealousy.  Yet  she  thought  that  he  had  been  once  or  twice 
deliberately  impertinent,  and  that  Stephen's  behaviour 
throughout  had  been  markedly  superior.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  reason  for  that  also? 

She  was  to  learn  that  reason  after  Hilary's  dry  depart- 
ure. He  was  full  of  gratitude,  and  promised  to  bring 
Skeffington  to  see  them  at  Hampstead  as  soon  as  possible. 
Then,  once  more  in  his  Norfolk  coat  and  flannel  trousers, 
he  swung  out  of  doors  with  Stephen,  who  was  to  show 
him  the  way  to  Lewes. 

Priscilla  slowly  cleared  away  the  dishes  and  piled  them 
ready  for  washing  up.  She  and  Stephen  would  do  that 
work  together  upon  his  return,  and  make  nothing  of  it. 
It  had  been  very  curious  to  see  Hilary  again,  and  to 
remember,  as  his  presence  had  made  her  do,  the  happen- 
ings of  a  year  ago.  She  had  been  so  much  younger  then, 
and  was  now  so  much  older.  She  thought  she  was  also 
so  extraordinarily  much  more  happy,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  those  days  had  been  superficially  happy  and  full  of 
delightful  occupations.  She  had  very  much  liked  to  lie 
in  the  hammock  and  to  hear  Hilary  and  David  lazily 
talking  to  one  another,  and  to  her.  Well,  those  days  were 
gone  .  .  .  one  couldn't,  however  much  one  wanted,  com- 
bine one's  various  happinesses.  The  strongest  impulse 
drove  one  forward,  and  the  lesser  impulses  resolved 
themselves  into  pleasant  or  melancholy  memories,  and 
dreams  of  what  might  have  happened.  ...  It  was  very 


210  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

nice  to  be  reconciled  to  Hilary.  He  had  been  stupid, 
insulting.  She  no  longer  respected  him  as  she  had  done. 
But  there  were  extenuations.  She  must  not  forget  that. 
Poor  Hilary!  And  yet  why  should  she  say  that?  He 
had  everything,  when  Stephen  had  nothing.  Hilary  had 
always  had  money  and  care  and  friends.  Stephen  had 
none  of  these  things.  Yet  Stephen  was  the  better  and 
the  richer  .  .  .  and  the  more  modest.  Stephen  was 
never  rude  to  inferiors,  was  never  aware  that  they  were 
inferiors,  except  when  they  were  pretentious  and  aroused 
his  quick  irritation.  Stephen  was  her  husband :  she  loved 
him.     Hilary  had  loved  her:  she  pitied  him. 

When  Stephen  came  back  he  was  still  grave;  but  once 
as  they  were  washing  up  he  began  to  grin  with  unexpected 
mischievousness. 

"I  can't  help  laughing  to  myself,"  he  said,  "when  I 
think  of  Badoureau  in  my  old  blue  serge  suit.  I  wish  we 
could  have  persuaded  him  to  wear  it  as  far  as  East- 
bourne." 

"What  a  curious  notion!"  cried  Priscilla.  "It  made 
him  look  like  a  growing  boy." 

"I  felt  a  satisfaction  in  seeing  him  wear  it." 

"But  why?" 

"Because  I  wore  it  the  first  time  I  met  him,  when  he 
ran  me  down  in  his  motor,  and  when  I  first  felt  an  over- 
whelming resentment  against  him  and  all  he  stood  for. 
And  I  should — it's  very  vicious,  I  know;  but  I  really 
should — have  liked  him  to  wear  those  clothes  in  public, 
because  I've  worn  them  in  public  and  suffered  from  the 
sense  that  I  was  incurably  shabby  and  ill-clothed.  I 
wish  he  could  once  have  that  feeling.  It  would  do  him 
all  the  humiliating  good  in  the  world.  But  he'll  never 
have  it.  .  .  ."  Stephen  sadly  shook  his  head,  and 
walked  about,  drying  Hilary's  teacup.  "He's  not  the 
kind  that  does,  worse  luck!  Though  he's  the  kind  that 
needs  it." 


CHAPTER  XII:  VISITORS  AT  THE  COTTAGE 


HIGH  above  London,  at  an  altitude  which  allows  a 
man  to  walk  on  a  level  with  the  top  of  Saint  Paul's 
Cathedral,  and  even,  upon  a  clear  day,  to  patronize 
London's  great  church  from  a  slightly  superior  view- 
point, Priscilla  and  Stephen  were  making  their  new  home. 
Their  cottage,  which  lay  near  the  steep  street  that  makes 
Hampstead  continue  to  show  some  of  the  air  of  a  country 
town,  was  almost  incredibly  small.  In  a  bygone  day  it 
would  have  been  called  "poky,"  although  more  recent 
developments  of  suburban  house-building  have  strangely 
destroyed  the  withering  potency  of  that  word;  and  in 
small  rooms,  but  with  wide-open  windows,  our  newer 
civilization  is  being  reared  in  a  perfect  dream  of  hygiene 
and  kindergarten.  It  did  not  matter  to  the  Moores  that 
their  neighbours  were  puzzled  to  see  people  of  a  dif- 
ferent culture  sharing  their  group  of  tiny  cottages.  Such 
bewilderment  was  only  a  passing  phase,  preliminary  to 
the  chase  of  all  uneducated  poor  people  from  the  delectable 
habitations  coveted  by  the  modern  poor  aesthetes.  The 
modern  poor  aesthete  must  have  a  home ;  that  home  must 
be  cheap.  Accordingly,  until  such  time  as  the  housing 
of  aesthetes  is  seriously  considered  by  the  State,  it  has 
to  be  inconveniently  small.  The  surviving  poor  people 
who  occupy  small  houses  in  favourite  spots  are  driven 
forth,  partly  by  a  growing  snobbery  which  leads  them 
to  horrible  little  villas,  partly  by  the  insistent  grasping- 
ness  of  the  envious,  but  wholly  innocent,  aesthete  in  search 
of  a  home.  To  grab  a  cottage  or  a  tiny  flat,  and  to 
furnish  it  with  pick-ups  from  shops  dealing  in  imitation 
worm-holes  and  fake  spinnets  and  spinning-wheels,  is  the 

211 


212  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

rapid  work  of  the  nest-building  aesthete  far  and  wide. 
Pewter,  brass,  lacquer,  oak,  walnut,  china,  tapestry, 
chintz,  shabby  rugs,  pallid  wall-papers  or  simulation 
rafters — all  these  are  quickly  improvised  and  appropri- 
ated. And  the  result  is  an  aesthetic  home,  fit  for  the  tepid 
ecstasies  of  conventional  art-lovers.  It  was  a  home  some- 
thing upon  those  lines,  because  such  furnishings  are  inex- 
pensive and  exceedingly  tasteful,  that  Priscilla  and 
Stephen  had  made.  They  were  no  better,  and  no  worse, 
than  hundreds  of  others.    Why  should  they  have  been  ? 

In  their  little  cottage  there  was  a  tiny  sitting-room,  a 
still  tinier  dining-room,  a  thimble-like  kitchen,  and  two 
demure  bedrooms  which  made  one  think  of  Cranford 
and  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  Rosamund  Gray.  It 
did  not  take  much  furniture  to  make  such  a  cottage 
habitable  and  comfortable,  and  the  less  furniture  there 
was  in  the  drawing-room  the  more  people  could  sit  there. 
Even  so,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  all  the  Evandines 
and  all  the  presentable  Moores  could  have  been  comfort- 
ably accommodated  at  one  time,  as  that  would  have  meant 
seven  people,  and  it  is  surprising  how  few  it  takes  to 
make  a  small  room  appear  overcrowded.  Some  of  them 
would  certainly  have  drifted  back  into  the  dining-room. 
It  was  this  fact  which  led  Priscilla,  when  they  were,  in 
the  common  phrase,  "settled,"  to  receive  her  friends  in 
detachments. 

She  had  obtained,  from  a  cottage  in  the  neighbourhood, 
one  of  those  little  daily  helps  who,  by  the  initiate,  are 
called  "mushrooms" — loquacious  children  of  fourteen  or 
fifteen  or  sixteen  who  come  each  morning  with  a  small 
bundle  and  who  go  away  each  evening  with  a  mystify- 
ingly  large  bundle.  They  may  have  earned  their  generic 
title  by  sudden  morning  appearances,  or  by  their  small 
size,  or  by  all  sorts  of  strange  means  (though  the  real 
origin  of  the  term  is  a  secret)  ;  but  however  that  may  be, 
and  under  whatever  name  they  may  be  known,  mushrooms 


VISITORS  AT  THE  COTTAGE  213 

are  a  feature  of  suburban  domestic  service  which  will  not 
lightly  be  forgotten.  Priscilla's  mushroom  was  called 
Irene.  She  was  an  excellent  worker,  and  she  took  great 
interest  in  the  household,  besides  being  terrified  of 
Stephen  and  openly  charmed  with  her  mistress.  The 
house  was  spotless  from  top  to  bottom;  and  Priscilla 
was  able  to  smooth  her  skirts  complacently  in  the  after- 
noons, when,  on  the  days  that  Stephen  worked  at  home, 
she  took  her  place  beside  him  in  the  sitting-room  and 
hoped  that  nobody  would  call  upon  them  that  day. 


11 

The  cottage  had  a  narrow  garden  in  front  of  it,  where 
Stephen  was  supposed  to  dig  and  to  plant  flowers;  but 
Stephen  suggested  that  Roy  might  give  him  a  hand  with 
it,  and  this  led  to  some  delay.  Besides,  to  begin  remak- 
ing a  garden  in  midsummer  is  ridiculous,  and  it  proved 
to  be  better  to  let  the  brightly  coloured  flowers  fancied 
by  the  previous  householder  bloom  and  wither  before 
alterations  in  style  and  composition  were  attempted.  In 
the  back  garden  Romeo  walked  and  played,  rather  wistful 
at  his  new  surroundings,  and  obviously  a  little  disillu- 
sioned at  the  sight  of  children  peeping  through  the 
palings  of  the  next  garden  and  the  sound  of  a  dog  bark- 
ing and  dragging  his  chain  two  gardens  away.  Romeo 
had  been  brought  thither  in  the  motor,  guarded  by  Mrs. 
Evandine  and  Dorothy.  He  had  seriously  watched  from 
Dorothy's  side  the  whole  of  the  road  from  Totteridge, 
and  Dorothy  had  the  ghastly  idea  that  he  was  making 
mental  notes  for  a  return  journey.  His  greeting  of 
Priscilla,  however,  had  relieved  her  of  that  dread,  for 
he  had  sprung  forward  with  every  mark  of  delight. 
Stephen,  too,  had  been  welcomed ;  but  the  house  had  made 
Romeo  shrug  his  shoulders.  He  had  sniffed  all  round 
it,  his  stomach  approaching  the  ground,  and  had  only 


214  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

been  reconciled  at  last  by  a  saucer  of  milk,  a  sardine,  and 
a  considerable  amount  of  petting.  There  was  always  that 
beastly  old  dog  barking  two  gardens  away.  Romeo 
did  not  like  dogs.  He  regarded  them  with  outward 
cool  intrepidity,  as  nervous  men  do,  but  with  a  beating 
heart. 

On  that  day  Irene  brought  in  the  tea,  and  everybody 
pretended  not  to  look  at  her,  although  they  all  furtively 
examined  her  as  she  went  demurely  backwards  and  for- 
wards with  a  brighter  colour  and  a  painful,  clambering 
attempt  to  be  very  quiet.  The  moment  she  had  gone 
Dorothy  hurried  to  say,  in  a  breathless  voice : 

"Isn't  she  sweet!  She's  got  awfully  globular  eyes, 
hasn't  she?    And  round  cheeks." 

Priscilla  proudly  smiled,  striving  to  appear  indifferent. 

"She's  a  good  worker,"  she  said,  with  a  professional 
air.  "Though  I  feel  I  must  mutter  a  charm  when  I  say 
that ;  because  our  next  door  neighbour  tells  me  that  girls 
don't  go  into  service  now." 

"Biddy  really  wants  to  come  to  you,"  explained  Mrs. 
Evandine.  "She  asked  me  whether  you  would  want  a 
parlourmaid.  I  asked  her  what  /  should  do  in  that  case. 
So  she  stays  with  me." 

"How  frightened  I  am  of  Biddy!"  cried  Dorothy. 
"She's  secret.     I'm  sure  she's  secret." 

"Do  you  mean  'discreet'?"  asked  Stephen.  "Or 
'secretive'  ?" 

"Neither.  Just  secret.  Like  somebody  in  the  Arabian 
Nights.  You  almost  expect  her  to  break  out  into  French. 
...  I  do  think  this  is  a  splendid  little  house."  Poor 
Dorothy's  face  paled  as  she  spoke,  for  though  she  was 
as  glad  as  could  be  of  their  happiness  she  could  hardly 
keep  from  thinking  that  she  too  would  like  such  a  house 
of  her  own.  Mrs.  Evandine  looked  gently  at  her,  smiling 
with  that  quiet  affection  which  made  people  confide  in 
her  so  readily. 


VISITORS  AT  THE  COTTAGE  215 

"David  is  coming,  isn't  he?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  Here  he  is !"  They  could  see  him  unlatch  the 
wooden  gate  at  the  farther  end  of  the  garden,  and  walk 
up  the  long  flagged  path  to  the  front  door.  Then  Irene 
ushered  him  into  the  room,  her  great  eyes  bulging  with 
shy  joy  and  her  cheeks  flushed  crimson  as  she  breathlessly 
pressed  back  against  the  door  to  let  him  enter. 

"Hallo,  people !"  He  came  forward  with  an  inclusive 
smile  and  shook  Stephen's  hand.  There  was  no  doubt 
of  his  power  to  be  at  home  anywhere,  and  of  his  famil- 
iarity with  the  cottage,  of  which  he  had  been  the  real 
discoverer. 

Something  made  Priscilla  glance  from  David  to 
Dorothy;  but  Dorothy's  eyes  were  lowered,  so  she  could 
not  read  her  expression.  It  had  struck  Priscilla  for  the 
first  time  that  David  was  very  debonair,  and  she  remem- 
bered that  Dorothy  was  staying  at  Totteridge.  She  did 
not  wish  either  of  them  to  be  unhappy. 


111 

Later,  when  Dorothy  and  Priscilla  were  alone  together, 
and  when  nobody  was  in  the  house  but  themselves,  there 
was  a  little  talk  between  them. 

"Are  you  pleased  with  everything?"  Dorothy  asked. 
"Your  mother  and  David  and  I  had  quite  a  rush  to  get 
things  fairly  straight  before  you  got  back.  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do  about  that  big  bowl  that  Mr.  Vanamure  sent. 
It's  such  miles  too  big  for  the  house,  but  so  awfully 
sumptuous.  .  .  .  He'll  expect  to  see  it  when  he  comes!" 

"Oh  dear!  I  suppose  everybody  will  look  round 
furtively!  You've  done  wonderfully,  dear.  You're  a 
tremendous  brick  You  know  how  we  feel,  don't  you? 
It's  all  beautiful." 

"Priscilla,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me.  I've  been  wondering 
what  to  do — what  to  set  about  doing." 


216  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"What  do  you  mean?"    Priscilla's  eyes  opened. 

"Work,  my  dear.     I  must  now  work." 

"But  you're  staying  with  mother!" 

"I  know.  She's  awfully  kind  and  nice.  But  although 
I  don't  mind  staying  with  her  a  month — or  even  two 
months — I  can't  go  on  like  that." 

"Well,  then  you  come  here." 

"That  would  be  jolly  too ;  but  you  know  Stephen  agreed 
that  I  might  get  some  work.  I  thought  I  might  be  a 
cook  or  dressmaker " 


"Dorothy!  Don't!"  complained  Priscilla.  "That 
sounds  horrible."  Her  voice  took  on  a  new  urgency. 
"You  know  I  should  hate  myself  if  I  thought  I'd " 

"You  haven't !  At  least,  it  was  inevitable.  But  it's 
one  result  of  our  all  living  together,  and  Stephen  provid- 
ing all  the  money.  .  .  .  You're  so  much  better  off,  some- 
how. .  .  .  But  he's  giving  the  old  man  a  weekly  sop,  and 
he  can't  go  on  supporting  me.  Besides  .  .  .  my  occupa- 
tion's gone.     I'm  a  cumberer.  .  .  ." 

Dorothy  spoke  lightly;  but  as  she  spoke  her  eyes  filled. 
Priscilla  put  her  arm  round  her  and  protested;  struck 
to  the  heart  by  a  note  in  Dorothy's  speech  of  bleak 
forlornness. 

"Suppose  you  stay  your  month  or  two  months  with 
mother,  or  come  here  and  go  back  to  her.  She'd  like 
you  to  stay  always.     That's  quite  perfectly  certain." 

"I  couldn't." 

"I've  thought  of  you  taking  my  place."  It  had  been 
a  part  of  Priscilla's  consolation  in  leaving  her  mother. 

Dorothy  shook  her  head  decidedly.  Such  a  life  would 
be  one  of  intolerable  inactivity. 

"It's  got  to  be  work!"  she  said,  with  an  exaggerated 
gravity.     "Work  or  poison." 

"Then  we'll  think  of  something.  But  have  your 
holiday.  You're  enjoying  it?  You're  happy,  aren't 
you?     You're  not  bored  with  it?" 


Visitors  at  the  cottage        217 

Dorothy  hastily  removed  any  doubt  upon  that  score. 

"I'm  simply  living  in  the  lap  of  comfort  and  I  don't 
feel  I  ought  to.  Your  mother  stops  me  from  helping 
Biddy.  I  can't  even  sew,  and  I've  got  nothing  to  do. 
Nothing  even  to  grumble  at!  I  offered  to  read  your 
father's  proofs ;  but  he  and  I  don't  agree  about  punctua- 
tion, so  he  said  I  wasn't  to  dream  of  it." 

"You  seem  to  have  been  a  regular  busybody." 

"Well,  Biddy  smiles  at  me !  I  wish  I  knew  what  that 
girl  thinks.  I'm  sure  she'll  end  by  marrying  Mr.  Vana- 
mure,  or  Mr.  Agg,  or  that  poor  old  deaf  gentleman  who 
talks  about  Ariosto.  .  .  .  But  I  expect  that  he's  too 
stupid  for  her." 

"I  expect  Biddy  will  marry  Minch." 

"Well  then  she's  married  to  him  already,  I  shouldn't 
wonder.     The  girl  intrigues  me !" 

"It's  quite  obvious  that  you're  discontented  at  having 
nothing  to  do,  and  what  father  calls  'running  to  conjec- 
ture,' which  is  a  kind  of  seed.  We  must  find  you  work. 
But  surely  you  must  have  been  busy  here!" 

"Pooh !"  said  Dorothy,  with  contempt.  "This  little 
cupboard !  I  could  scour  it  all  in  a  day !"  She  was  bent 
upon  showing  how  great  were  her  normal  ideas  of  house- 
keeping.    "And  cook  meals  as  well !" 

"I'm  sure  you  couldn't!"  cried  Priscilla  indignantly. 
"But  then  perhaps  I'm  slow!"  It  was  a  rueful  thought 
to  her,  and  particularly  unwelcome  at  this  stage  of  her 
acute  housewifely  vanity.  Such  a  cry  from  the  heart 
reduced  Dorothy  to  entire  penitence. 

"You  poor  old  thing!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  warm  voice 
of  sympathy.  "I  didn't  mean  it.  How  could  I  be  so 
beastly !" 

They  forgave  one  another.  It  seemed  to  Priscilla  that 
the  whole  situation  was  unsatisfactory.  There  was  no 
reason — except  Dorothy's  pride — why  she  should  not  stay 
at  Totteridge  for  many  months  as  a  privileged  guest. 


218  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

There  was  every  reason,  in  Priscilla's  mind,  which  for  a 
little  while  was  naturally  inclined  to  run  on  marriage,  why 
Dorothy  and  David  should  quite  as  happily  marry  as 
Stephen  and  herself.  Yet  if  Dorothy,  like  all  these  poor 
people,  including  Stephen,  had  a  pride  that  dwarfed  every 
other  consideration,  she  might  go  away  and  bury  herself 
somewhere  upon  some  stupid  and  stupefying  work;  might 
lose  touch  with  Stephen,  with  everybody;  might  get 
warped,  or  drift  into  marriage  out  of  pity  for  some 
hopeless  nobody  or  out  of  sheer  need  for  distraction. 
Hastily,  Priscilla  saw  it  all,  invented  a  supposititious 
future  history  for  Dorothy  of  the  utmost  unpleasantness. 

"Whatever  happens,"  she  said,  instinctively  struggling 
against  the  fulfilment  of  such  a  gloomy  prophecy,  "don't 
think  of  doing  anything  that  takes  you  away  from  us.  We 
can't  do  without  you.     Neither  of  us  can !" 

Dorothy  impulsively  kissed  her.  The  kind  words  had 
gone  straight  to  her  heart,  which  a  little  ached  with  the 
fear  of  uselessness,  and  which  was  so  quickly  touched  that 
she  was  always  swift  in  acknowledgment. 

"You're  a  dear !"  Dorothy  breathed.  "I'm  an  ungrate- 
ful pig.  But  I  know  you  understand,  and  that  makes  me 
feel  lots  better."  The  two  girls  exchanged  a  frank  look 
that  was  almost  searching. 


IV 

Roy  came  upon  another  evening.  He  met  Stephen  in 
town  and  they  travelled  to  Hampstead  together.  Roy  was 
now  seventeen,  and  engaged  upon  a  spurt  of  growth.  This 
made  his  movements  unhandy  and  his  eyes  not  quite 
candid.  His  voice  was  gruff,  his  fingers  were  stained 
orange  as  a  result  of  the  constant  smoking  of  cigarettes, 
his  complexion  was  grey  and  inclined  to  be  thick.  Super- 
ficially, therefore,  he  was  not  attractive.  But  to  those 
capable  of  reading  the  signs,  Roy  was  developing  into  a 


VISITORS  AT  THE  COTTAGE  219 

very  handsome  young  man.  The  furtive  grey  eyes 
would  presently  become  clear,  as  understanding  grew  of 
those  intimations  which  at  present  were  making  chaos  in 
Roy's  mind;  the  orange  fingers  would  be  pumice-stoned 
clean;  the  muddy  skin  would  give  place  to  an  attractive 
pallor  ready  for  that  bronze  which  the  advertisements 
say  is  the  mark  of  the  handsome  man.  And  Roy  would 
then  attend  to  his  hair  and  his  finger-nails  and  would 
change  in  a  week  from  a  hoarse-voiced  simulation  man 
into  a  reality  beyond  all  the  dreams  of  his  present  coy 
parent-dodging  Phyllises. 

Upon  his  first  introduction  to  the  cottage  Roy  was  ill 
at  ease.  He  had  been  some  weeks  apart  from  Stephen, 
so  that  in  his  impressionable  state  he  had  been  further 
estranged  from  his  brother  by  the  old  man.  Also  he  was 
very  shy  of  Priscilla,  because  she  seemed  to  him  to  be  a 
lady,  and  he  was  only  at  ease  with  the  kind  of  girl  who 
giggles  Avith  her  back  to  a  wall  or  stands  with  her  arm 
linked  in  the  arm  of  a  girl  companion.  He  felt  mildly 
what  young  Marlow  in  a  more  licentious  age  felt  when 
in  the  acknowledged  presence  of  Kate  Hardcastle.  He  felt 
disarmed :  the  things  he  could  say  to  other  girls  did  as 
little  here  as  they  would  have  done  with  Dorothy.  He 
was  full  of  the  shamed  sentimental  solicitude  of  the  typi- 
cal young  male  concerning  his  related  womenfolk.  They 
stood  apart.  So  he  had  nothing  to  say  but  an  awkward 
"yes"  or  "no"  to  everything  that  was  suggested,  and 
"please"  and  "thanks"  to  every  item  of  the  meal  which 
Priscilla — also  rather  shy — pressed  upon  his  attention. 
The  meal  was  not  a  success.  Stephen's  attempted  cor- 
diality was  hampered  by  preoccupation. 

After  Roy  had  been  shown  over  the  cottage — hanging 
and  tip-toeing  as  awkwardly  as  privileged  visitors  to 
Windsor  Castle  when  the  Royal  Family  is  absent — the 
three  of  them  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  and  Stephen 
indicated  his  magnificently  exaggerated  plans  for  the  front 


220  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

garden.  Then  they  all  sat  down  and  looked  at  one 
another.  Brothers  notoriously  have  little  to  say :  they 
generally  need  the  spur  of  a  third :  and  neither  Priscilla 
nor  Roy  had  the  least  idea  of  dealing  with  characters 
so  different  as  each  was  from  the  other.  The  burden 
fell  upon  Stephen,  who  already  knew  all  that  Roy  would 
tell  him  about  the  situation  in  Islington.  In  vain  Priscilla 
asked  Roy  about  himself:  he  remained  dumb  for  fear  of 
Stephen.  At  last  Stephen,  at  Priscilla's  bidding,  went 
to  look  for  Romeo,  and  their  exchanged  glance  agreed 
upon  a  longer  absence.  When  he  had  gone  Priscilla  began 
again. 

"Stephen  said  you  were  in  an  office,"  she  said.  "I 
expect  it's  all  routine  work.     Do  you  like  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  he  answered  without  enthusiasm, 
dropping  his  head  and  looking  at  her  at  last.  "Some- 
times." 

"And  sometimes  horrid,  I  suppose.  My  brother's  in 
an  office — in  a  publisher's  office.  To  hear  him  speak  of 
it  you'd  think  they  never  did  any  work  there  at  all." 

That  touched  Roy's  fancy,  and  he  smiled  faintly  with 
an  air  of  superior  knowledge. 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  miking,"  he  said.  "At  our 
place  the  chaps  mostly  do  what  they  like  except  when  the 
great  T  AM'  comes  in.  He  tells  them  all  off  properly. 
He's  the  manager." 

"I  notice  you  say  'them,'  "  demurely  suggested  Pris- 
cilla. "So  I  suppose  that  means  you're  very  virtuous." 
Such  a  suggestion  spurred  Roy's  pride.  Stubbornly  he 
resisted  it. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,"  he  said. 
"Always  get  me  to  do  any  of  the  cheeking.  See,  we  have 
a  lot  of  visitors,  and  there's  one  deaf  old  girl — lady  comes 
in  pretty  often.  .  .  .  They  tell  her  all  sorts  of  things. 
She  can't  hear,  you  know :  doesn't  matter  to  her  what 
you  say.     Some  of  the  things  would  make  you  laugh. 


VISITORS  AT  THE  COTTAGE  221 

.  .  .  But  it's  not  very  interesting  work.  I  have  to  keep 
the  petty  cash,  and  get  dockets  for  everything  I  pay  out. 
You'd  have  laughed  the  other  day.  I  got  a  docket  for 
a  penny — 'Cheese  to  tempt  mice  into  the  dustbin.'  We've 
got  a  way  of  catching  them — a  plank  run  up  against  an 
empty  dustbin,  and  cheese  in  the  bin.  They  can't  get  out. 
We  get  five  or  six  in  a  morning." 

"Horrid!     And  do  you  kill  them?" 

"Oh  yes."  He  smiled  in  a  manly  way,  flattered  by 
her  squeamishness.  But  he  refrained  from  details,  to 
Priscilla's  relief. 

She  presently  tried  a  different  kind  of  subject,  having, 
as  it  appeared,  exhausted  his  office. 

"Stephen  and  I  want  you  often  to  come  here.  You 
will,  won't  you?" 

He  grinned  and  faintly  flushed  before  answering  like 
a  nice  boy : 

"If  you'll  have  me."  It  did  make  his  eyes  sparkle,  as 
a  compliment  would  have  done. 

"Of  course.  We  thought,  if  you  would  come  and  live 
in  Hampstead.  Or  do  you  feel  you  must  stay  with  your 
father?" 

"Oh  no!"  said  Roy  promptly.  "Don't  want  to  stay 
with  him.  No,  I'd  rather  get  away,  now  Dolphy  and 
Steve  are  gone."  She  shook  her  head  at  the  knowledge 
that  none  of  the  three  children  loved  their  father.  To 
her  it  was  something  hardly  conceivable.  She  loved  both 
of  her  parents  so  warmly  that  the  Moores  seemed  almost 
callous  in  that  relation.  Yet  she  knew  that  the  two  elder 
ones  were  not  callous,  and  that  there  must  be  something 
to  make  them  so  uniformly  unfriendly  to  the  old  man. 

"You've  seen  Dorothy?"  He  said,  "Once  or  twice," 
and  that  he'd  been  to  Totteridge,  but  then  he  added,  with 
great  ingenuousness : 

"But  I  didn't  much  like  going  there.  The  maid  was 
so  stiff  and  starchy,  and  I  felt  I  didn't  'belong'  there. 


222  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

As  though  I  was  messing  everything.  And  young  Dolphy 
was  in  a  state  in  case  I  broke  anything  or  carried  mud 
on  my  boots.  I'm  sorry  ...  I  forgot  it  was  your  house. 
You  know  I  can't  help  thinking  how  funny  it  is  .  .  . 
well  .  .  .  not  funny,  but  strange  —  your  marrying 
Stephen.  Not  a  bit  what  I  should  have  thought.  Really, 
it's  not!" 

"But  you're  very  fond  of  Stephen,  I'm  sure."  Priscilla 
was  just  a  trifle  nettled.  She  could  never  see  any  need 
for  the  amazement  which  several  of  her  own  friends,  by 
more  indirect  means,  and  with  less  candour,  had 
expressed. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  he  hesitatingly  recorded. 

"Roy!"  Her  exclamation  made  him  laugh.  "That's 
most  awfully  lukewarm." 

It  puzzled  her.  She  could  not  understand  it.  Why 
shouldn't  a  brother  praise  frankly,  and  frankly  speak  of 
his  deep  affection?  She  was  unwittingly  walking  upon 
a  volcano.  She  did  not  guess  what  she  was  doing;  yet 
her  pressure  upon  that  question  was  precipitating  a 
catastrophe. 

"Oh,  I  like  him  well  enough,"  Roy  assured  her.  "I 
mean  to  say,  he's  not  a  fellow  to  go  into  ecstasies  over. 
Not  the  sort  of  chap.  He's  so  quiet.  Of  course,"  he 
began  to  smile  with  a  sort  of  laboured  archness,  "it's 
different  with  you.  You'd  naturally  think  he  was  perfect. 
But  you  see  I  know  he's  not." 

"I  think  you're  horribly  unkind,"  protested  Priscilla, 
laughing,  unconsciously  relieved  by  his  ingenuous  atti- 
tude. 

Her  protest  seemed  to  go  to  his  head  like  wine. 

"You  see  I  know,"  he  persisted.  "That's  what  Tom 
Harrington — that's  my  friend — was  saying.  He  said 
that  Stephen  being  so  quiet  put  you  off.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  of  course  if  you  make  up  your  mind  beforehand 
about  anybody  it's  sure  to  turn  out  wrong.     You'd  be 


VISITORS  AT  THE  COTTAGE  223 

surprised  how  mistaken  I  was  about  Dorothy.  Before  I 
saw  her  I  thought  of  her  as  a  tall  thin  girl  with  a  pale 
face — very  serious." 

"I  say,"  blundered  Roy.  "About  what  I  said.  Of 
course  I'd  back  up  old  Stephen  in  anything.  He's  a  bit 
stiff;  but  he's  been  awfully  good  to  me.  I  wasn't  saying 
anything  against  him.  I  think  he's  a  fine  chap.  But  what 
the  old  man  says,  you  see  .  .  ." 

Roy  paused,  and  looked  over  at  the  door,  because  he 
had  heard  Stephen's  returning  footsteps. 

"You  oughtn't  to  mind  that,"  said  Priscilla.  "When 
you  know  Stephen  for  yourself." 

"Yes,  I  know.  .  .  .  But  the  old  man's  been  telling 
me.  .  .  .  Ssh!" 

Stephen  came  into  the  room,  hearing  involuntarily 
Roy's  last  speech. 

"What's  the  old  man  been  telling  you?"  he  asked,  in 
a  strange  voice. 

Roy  looked  at  him  for  quite  a  perceptible  space,  strug- 
gling between  speech  and  silence.  His  cheeks  flushed 
up,  and  his  eyes  glittered.  He  was  the  picture  of 
awkwardness. 

"About  .  .  .  about  you  and  Minnie  Bayley,"  he 
blurted  out.     "You  wanted  to  know." 

Stephen  smiled.  Priscilla  looked  quickly  at  him.  Roy 
sheepishly  hung  his  head.  Not  one  of  them  spoke  for 
a  moment.  Then  Stephen  went  to  his  bookshelves 
between  the  fireplace  and  the  inner  wall,  and  took  out 
a  book.    It  seemed  to  Priscilla  that  he  was  rather  pale. 


After  the  disconcerting  pause  Stephen  replaced  the 
book  he  had  casually  examined,  and  stepped  round  so 
that  he  stood  between  the  others  and  the  window. 

"It's  getting  dark,"  he  said.     "Horrible  to  think  of 


224  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

the  nights  lengthening."  Abruptly  he  continued :  "By 
the  way,  Priscilla,  it's  a  curious  thing  that  the  man  next 
door  is  Skeffington.  You  remember  that  Badoureau  said 
he  lived  at  Hampstead." 

"How  strange !"  Priscilla  tried  to  shake  off  the  effect 
of  that  silence.     "How  did  you  hear?" 

"As  I  was  going  out  this  morning  he  was  at  the  gate. 
He  said :  'Oh,  you're  Moore.'  It  seems  that  David  found 
out  and  told  him.  They  hadn't  met  for  some  time,  and 
Skeffington's  recently  moved  here.  He's  promised  to 
come  in  one  evening." 

"Is  he  married  ?"  It  occurred  to  Priscilla  that  the  wife 
of  Skeffington  might  be  a  pleasant  neighbour.  Her  hope, 
however,  was  disappointed. 

"Bachelor.  Pie  says  his  place  is  a  pigsty,  and  that  he 
envies  us.  I  shouldn't  imagine  he  was  over-scrupulous 
in  talk.  These  novelists  never  are.  They'll  tell  you  any- 
thing about  themselves  just  to  see  how  you  take  it.  It's 
part  of  their  vanity." 

"How  cynical  you  are!  You  must  have  noticed  that, 
Roy." 

Roy  flushed  up  again.  He  clambered  after  her  mood, 
pleased  at  being  noticed  and  referred  to. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said,  breathlessly.  "Frightfully  cynical, 
is  old  Steve.  Doesn't  see  any  good  in  anybody.  Makes 
you  wonder  if  he  sees  any  good  in  himself." 

"Do  you  read  Skeffington's  books?  Plave  you  read 
any?" 

"Not  me.  I've  got  no  time  for  reading.  No :  what 
I  go  in  for  is  comic  songs." 

"Hallo!"  cried  Stephen.  "That's  something  new, 
isn't  it?" 

Roy  stammered  at  being  caught  in  some  strange  and 
damaging  admission  about  himself. 

"Well,  rather  new,"  he  agreed.  "I've  been  learning 
a  few.     Tom's  helping  me.     You  can  make  money  by 


VISITORS  AT  THE  COTTAGE  225 

singing  them  at  smokers  and  masonics.  Half  a  guinea 
a  time.  It's  not  to  be  sneezed  at.  That's  what  the  old 
man  says.  .  .  .'"' 

"Oh,  the  old  man !"  said  Stephen,  in  a  dry  tone  that 
cut  across  Roy's  confidences  like  the  cruel  lash  of  a 
malicious  whip.    Roy  flinched  and  stopped  dead. 

The  old  man,  thought  Priscilla.  How  she  was  begin- 
ning to  dread  those  words.  They  always  seemed  to  carry 
a  significance  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  sound.  It  was 
not  only  that  their  familiarity  held  a  crudely  contemptu- 
ous note,  though  she  was  not  aware  of  that.  The  words 
meant  more  than  a  lack  of  love :  they  could  be  so  uttered 
as  to  contain  all  the  hostilities  of  the  human  voice.  They 
were  words  that  stung  Stephen  into  brooding  quiet.  She 
had  heard  them  spoken  by  the  old  man's  three  children, 
never  with  an  affection  or  as  any  form  of  endearment, 
always  with  a  recognition  of  some  unpleasant  power.  The 
old  man.  The  thought  of  him  made  her  dimly  uneasy, 
unhappy. 


CHAPTER  XIII:  CONFIDENCES 


AFTER  Roy  had  gone,  Priscilla  sat  quietly  while 
Stephen  wrote.  She  never  knew  what  he  was 
writing,  unless  by  accident,  for  he  never  talked  of  his 
work  and  it  was  generally  posted  immediately  upon  com- 
pletion. Indeed,  she  had  seen  one  article  on  the  South 
Downs  in  a  weekly  review  and,  upon  remarking  that  it 
was  interesting  and  that  it  "might  almost  have  been  writ- 
ten by"  Stephen,  had  learned  with  mingled  pride  and 
hurtness  that  it  actually  was  his.  She  couldn't  understand 
why  he  should  refrain  from  telling  her,  when  she  was 
really  so  much  interested.  She  guessed  that  it  was  less 
secretiveness  than  habitual  silence  that  made  him  thus 
uncommunicative ;  but  she  longed  that  he  should  as 
lavishly  share  his  confidence  as  she  was  ready  to  share 
hers.  That  was  it.  She  felt  like  a  child  who  goes  to  kiss 
a  constrained  visitor  and  is  repulsed,  or  perhaps  like  any 
cordial  person  chilled  by  a  nature  less  expansive.  She 
had  already  felt  that  chill  more  than  once — the  secret 
armour  that  he  wore  about  his  heart  had  already  made 
her  feel  like  a  rebuffed  child.  Yet  her  love  was  as 
constant  and  her  hope  as  keen.  She  knew  that  within 
its  armour  his  heart  beat  warmly.  One  day  there  would 
be  no  armour. 

Priscilla,  although  mindful  of  Stephen's  work,  wanted 
very  much  to  speak  about  Roy.  It  would  have  done  her 
good  if  she  could  have  said — as  she  wanted  to  say :  "What 
a  funny  boy  Roy  is.  And  whatever  did  he  mean  about 
Minnie  Bayley?  And  who  is  she?"  At  first  she  looked 
at  him  occasionally  with  his  head  bent  low,  thinking  that 
the  busy  pen  would  stop  and  the  head  be  raised.  Then 
the  words  had  dried  upon  her  lips,  and  she  had  felt  a 

226 


CONFIDENCES  227 

funny  faint  choking  feeling — a  sort  of  sleepiness — and 
she  had  not  said  the  words.  That  curious  baulking  had 
surprised  her.  She  had  tried  to  head  herself  back.  The 
difficulty  made  her  think  of  all  sorts  of  ways  of  intro- 
ducing the  subject.  Once  she  thought  she  really  must 
speak;  but  no  sound  had  come.  It  was  very  strange. 
Why  on  earth  shouldn't  she  ask?  How  silly  she  was 
getting.  She  would  say  :  "Stephen :  sorry  to  interrupt ; 
but  who  is  Minnie  Bayley  ?"  Then  she  felt  that  she  could 
never  say  it  naturally,  that  after  all  this  unwelcome  con- 
straint her  voice  would  tremble,  or  would  sound  dry  or 
serious  or  even  suspicious.  It  was  her  chief  dread  that 
when  she  asked  the  question  she  might  seem  to  give  it  a 
solemn  turn.  It  was  only  curiosity,  she  assured  herself. 
There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  know  or  want  to 
know  about  any  particular  person.  Why  shouldn't  she 
ask  ?  It  wasn't  as  though  Stephen  was  ever  rude  to  her. 
She  wasn't  afraid ;  but  one  thing  she  had  learnt  about  men 
was  that  they  did  not  like  women's  anxiety  about  them 
unless  it  was  flattering.  She  knew  that  if  her  voice 
quivered  it  would  irritate  Stephen.  On  any  really  serious 
occasion,  uncertainty  of  tone  would  bring  him  at  once  to 
her  side,  loyal  and  eager  to  be  her  champion.  But  this 
was  a  triviality.  It  was  nothing,  except  that  for  some 
unaccountable  reason  the  idea  of  asking  the  question  had 
made  her  self-conscious.  "I'm  tired,"  she  thought.  "But 
I  wish  he  would  tell  me  about  her.  I  wonder  who  she  is. 
Roy  spoke  in  such  a  peculiar  way.  Stephen  will  tell  me, 
of  course.  There's  nothing  to  tell.  Only  I'm  curious. 
That's  all  that's  the  matter.  I  might  say:  'Don't  think 
me  horrible,  Stephen,  but  I'm  simply  dying  to  know  what 
you  know  about  Minnie  Bayley.'  Or :  Tt's  a  curious 
thing  I  can't  get  that  name  out  of  my  head — the  girl 
Roy  .  .  .'  Or:  'What  was  that  name  Roy  mentioned?'  " 
No !  that  wouldn't  be  a  candid  way  of  beginning,  because 
she  knew  the  name.     She  would  have  to  say:    "Minnie 


228  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Bayley :  explain !"  Or :  "Was  what  the  old  man  said 
about  you  not  very  nice,  Stephen?"  There  were  innu- 
merable ways  in  which  she  could  raise  the  question;  yet 
she  had  now  thought  about  it  so  much,  in  such  a  little 
time,  that  she  seemed  to  have  been  worrying  for  hours, 
and  the  moment  had  gone  by  for  any  simple,  nat- 
ural inquiry.  That  did  not  prevent  the  name  of  Minnie 
Bayley  from  echoing  through  her  thoughts,  and  con- 
stantly returning,  even  when  she  thought  of  other 
things.  It  kept  coming  throbbing  through,  like  incipient 
toothache,  that  sometimes  faintly,  as  it  were,  tries  the 
tooth  like  a  cautious  skater  before  it  ventures  into  the 
open. 

Restlessly,  Priscilla  got  up  from  the  chair  and  took  a 
book,  the  pages  of  which  she  listlessly  turned.  She  felt 
quite  miserable  with  the  effort  not  to  be  silly.  Stephen, 
hearing  her  movement,  turned  his  head,  and  laid  down 
the  pen. 

"Are  you  tired,  dear?"  he  asked.  "It's  too  bad  that 
I  should  be  working." 

He  came  across  to  her,  and  sat  down  upon  the  floor 
by  her  side,  taking  her  hand  lightly  for  an  instant.  But 
she  thought  he  did  not  look  at  her.  Priscilla  loved  to  see 
his  face  quite  close,  though  the  lines  in  it  hurt  her. 

"No,  no.  I'm  not  tired,"  she  made  answer,  trying  her 
voice  to  see  if  it  were  normal,  and  finding  it  rather  flat 
and  hard.     "What  is  it  you're  doing?" 

"Well,  I'm  trying  to  do  the  first  of  a  series  of  'Walks 
in  London' — a  sort  of  mixture  of  antiquarian  and  pedes- 
trian— mostly  pedestrian,  I'm  afraid — talk  about  different 
districts.  I've  been  doing  Islington.  I  shall  do  King's 
Cross  and  Hampstead  and  Chiswick,  and  all  sorts  of 
places.  I  thought  I  might  make  something  by  them,  if 
I  could  get  some  taken  as  a  series." 

"Good  idea!"  She  was  painfully  anxious  to  get  over 
her  hesitating  state.     He  continued,  gratified : 


CONFIDENCES  229 

"And  then  perhaps  a  book.  Illustrated  with  old  plans 
and  prints.     But  I  must  ask  David." 

"Do  we  want  money  so  badly,  Steve?" 

He  drew  his  feet  up  and  clasped  his  hands  round  his 
knees. 

"Rather  badly,  dear.  I've  been  going  into  things,  and 
I  find  that  I  haven't  been  averaging  much  more  than 
three  pounds  a  week  for  the  last  month.  I  must  make 
a  minimum  of  five  pounds  a  week.  It  can't  otherwise  be 
done,  with  what  .  .  .  the  .  .  ."  He  stopped  suddenly, 
and  Priscilla  guessed  that  he  was  unable  to  refer  to  his 
liability  to  the  old  man. 

Here  was  her  opportunity,  you  would  think  ?  But  no ! 
She  was  now  concerned  with  their  financial  position.  All 
her  nervousness,  it  seemed,  had  run  suddenly  to  cow- 
ardice. She  felt  merely  and  inexplicably  abject  before 
that  factor,  so  new,  and  hitherto  in  her  life  so  unimpor- 
tant, which  now  dominated  everything. 

"Am  I  extravagant,  Stephen  ?"  It  was  the  first  wistful 
thought  of  inexperience. 

"My  dear !  You  haven't  had  a  chance  to  be.  Of  course 
not.  You  see  I  made  a  good  deal  in  the  winter  and  the 
spring.  I  did  a  great  deal,  and  it  paid  me  well — particu- 
larly those  articles  in  the  New  Monthly.  But  after  all 
I'm  principally  a  journalist,  and  that  means  that  money's 
not  as  certain  as  it  might  be,  or  as  regular.  I've  got 
The  Norm  ( for  as  long  as  Kempison  runs  it  as  a  hobby), 
and  that's  a  steady  two  guineas,  with  often  a  bit  more; 
but  the  two  other  papers  have  been  erratic.  I  think  they're 
nervous  of  me.  And  finally  old  Subbage  hasn't  had  much 
hack-work  for  me.  It's  quite  all  right;  only  I'm  always 
nervy  about  money.  When  you've  been  very  poor  you're 
always  inclined  to  be  morbid  about  it." 

She  nodded.  She  remembered  his  scruples  about  their 
marriage. 

"Stephen,  you  never  feel  sorry.  ...  I  mean,  about 


230  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

us?"  she  whispered.  ''You're  not  anxious?"  She  knew 
it  was  absurd  to  ask  such  a  thing.  "I  feel  I  should  be 
to  blame  if  you  got  wretched.  Do  try  and  tell  me  if 
you're  worried,  my  dearest.  .  .  ." 

At  first  he  did  not  trouble  to  answer  her  in  so  many 
words,  but  only  kissed  her  slender  hand  as  it  lay  so 
temptingly  near.  She  slipped  her  arm  round  his  neck 
so  that  her  hand  rested  gently  upon  his  shoulder  and  his 
head  against  her. 

"As  long  as  you're  happy,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  of 
still  silence,  "I'm  not  worried  about  anything.  You've 
given  me  the  first  happiness  I've  ever  had,  and  I've  got 
less  to  worry  about  than  I've  ever  had." 

She  was  struck  by  the  words. 

"Less?"  she  asked,  delightedly.  "Really?  How 
beautiful." 

"I  only  want  you  to  be  happy." 

"But  I  am!"  She  kissed  him  in  a  sort  of  glee.  "You 
see,  Stephen  ...  if  you'll  excuse  me  for  saying  it  .  .  . 
you  don't  change  much.  I  can't  very  well  tell  if  you're 
worried  or  rollicking."  They  both  laughed  at  such  a 
word.  "I  can't  imagine  you  .  .  .  See,  when  you  look 
at  me  I  expect  to  see — perhaps  a  radiant  light  on  your 
face  .  .  .  transfiguring  .  .  .  like  one  gets  in  books.  And 
I  sort  of  feel  that  really  you're  thinking  about  Guild 
Socialism  or  next  week's  rent.  That  makes  me  wish  you 
talked  more  about  yourself." 

"But,  my  dear!  It  seems  to  me  that  we  spend  our 
days  in  talking  about  me.  Never  about  you.  I  sometimes 
shut  up  from  the  sheer  dread  of  boring  you  to  death.  I 
shouldn't  like  to  leave  off  one  time  and  find  you  stiff  and 
cold  with  boredom." 

"You  do  talk  a  lot  .  .  .  about  what  you  are,  and  think, 
or  have  done.  But  never  about  this  minute.  Never 
about  .  .  .  you  and  mc.  You  don't  often  get  rapturous. 
No,  dear.     I  don't  want  you  to;  but  sometimes  I  think 


CONFIDENCES  231 

I'd  like  to  be  more  inside  your  mind.  You've  told  me 
about  your  series  of  articles :  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  about, 
Stephen,  the  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  no  good.  I  seem  to  be 
grumbling,  when  I'm  not.  .  .  ." 

"Should  I  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Sometimes  .  .  .  and  sometimes  remember  I'm  a  girl, 
Steve." 

There  was  no  need  for  that  reminder,  as  she  knew. 
She  would  not  have  said  it  if  she  had  not  at  that  precise 
moment  remembered  Minnie  Bayley.  She  was  opening 
her  mouth  to  say,  "and  I'm  very  curious,"  when  Stephen, 
unconsciously  turning  the  conversation  away  from  its 
climax,  reverted  to  his  plans,  about  which  he  knew  she 
liked  to  hear. 

"If  I  could  write  a  book  of  some  sort  I  should  do  well. 
You  can  write  as  many  reviews  and  essays  and  articles  as 
you  like,  but  if  you  haven't  published  a  book  you  can  get 
only  a  little  private  reputation.  But  if  I  wrote  a  book  it 
would  take  a  tremendous  time,  and  have  to  be  a  good 
one." 

"Southey?"  she  asked,  remembering  in  a  flash  her 
father's  suggestion. 

"Nobody  much  wants  it  unless  your  father  does  such 
a  book.  Should  I  do  one,  do  you  think,  on  Shakespeare  ? 
A  real  dressing-down?    Telling  the  truth  about  him?" 

"Oh,  be  careful,  dear,"  pleaded  Priscilla.  "Not 
Shakespeare!     He's  such  a  fetish!" 

"Very  good  subject,"  he  warned  her,  and  would  have 
said  more  but  that  in  his  turn  he  was  interrupted. 

At  the  front  door  there  was  a  little  tapping. 

ii 

The  one  who  tapped  was  a  rather  slim  man  with  a 
deep  voice. 

"Skeffington,"  he  said,  affirmatively.  "I  promised  to 
look  in.    Am  I  in  the  way?" 


232  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Stephen  shook  his  hand,  which  was  very  skinny,  and 
ushered  him  into  the  room.  Here  the  neighbour,  who 
looked  about  rather  like  a  bird  from  behind  his  pince-nez, 
greeted  Priscilla  with  a  smilingness  that  greatly  pleased 
her.  In  one  minute,  it  was  clear,  Skeffington  made 
himself  at  home. 

"First,"  he  said,  "before  I  forget.  Have  you  got  any 
oil?  To  spare?  Thank  you  very  much.  1  could  run 
down  to  the  shop;  but  you  get  so  oily  in  carrying  a  can 
about.  If  there's  one  thing  I  dislike  it  is  getting  my  hands 
oily.  I'm  a  decadent,  you  see ;  and  the  thing  a  decadent 
dislikes  above  all  others  is  grease." 

"If  that's  the  test,"  Priscilla  said  quickly,  "I'm  afraid 
we're  decadents  too." 

"You  probably  like  it  in  food." 

"No." 

"How  splendid !  I'm  glad  we  are  neighbours.  I 
remember  the  disgust  I  felt  the  first  time  I  read  that 
George  Gissing  loved  everything  drenched  in  fat.  I'm 
supposed  to  be  a  disciple  of  Gissing's;  but  that  is  only 
because  we're  both  urban  novelists,  and  any  stick's  good 
enough  to  beat  a  dog  with  when  one's  out  for  sapience." 

"You're  rather  a  chatterbox !"  thought  Priscilla,  look- 
ing at  the  man's  sandy  beard  and  his  strong  teeth,  which 
showed  a  good  deal  as  he  spoke.     "But  inoffensive." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  coming  in  unceremoniously. 
I  want  the  oil,  but  I'd  intended  to  come,  in  any  case, 
because  I  wanted  to  meet  you.  A  man  you  know — one 
Hilary  Badoureau — writes  to  me  that  when  he  discovers 
your  address,  which  he  seems  to  have  been  too  flurried 
to  remember,  he's  going  to  have  the  satisfaction  of 
introducing  me  ...  to  you,  Mrs.  Moore.  So  as  I  have 
scraped  acquaintance  with  your  husband,  I  thought  I'd 
write  back  proudly  and  say  there  was  already  friendship 
between  us." 

"Be  sure  to  do  so !"  Priscilla  told  him,  laughing.    "But 


CONFIDENCES  233 

I  can't  understand  why  you  seem  to  have  thought  it 
necessary  to  introduce  yourself  to  us." 

"And  of  course  I  know  your  brother.  He's  my 
wretched  publisher.  But  he's  my  friend  as  well,  curiously 
enough." 

The  stranger  sat  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with 
an  ingratiating  smile,  using  his  little  hands  to  punctuate 
his  remarks,  which  perhaps  he  would  not  have  done  but 
for  their  smallness.  His  hair  was  short  and  thin,  his  eyes 
clear  but  rather  almond-shaped,  his  forehead  low  and 
solid  but  receding  and  looking  higher  than  it  was  owing 
to  the  loss  of  front  hair.  The  effect  of  this  and  of  a 
broad  aquiline  nose  was  to  give  the  head  in  some  aspects 
a  bird-like  air,  as  Hilary  had  indicated.  All  his  move- 
ments were  nervous  but  not  ungraceful,  and  while  he 
was  clearly  a  vain  man  he  was  not  vain  in  a  sombre 
manner,  and  so  was  forgiven  for  his  vice.  His  voice 
was  low  and  musical,  and  his  laugh  frequent.  Stephen 
and  Priscilla  both  liked  him,  the  one  because  she  liked 
all  people  who  were  cheerful  and  unaffected,  the  other 
because,  while  he  did  not  altogether  follow  Skeffington's 
gratuitous  self-explications,  he  liked  the  man's  work.  It 
was  about  such  a  life  as  he  himself  had  lived,  and  he  was 
prepared  to  find  that  Skeffington,  however  careless  he 
seemed,  was  at  heart  very  sober  and  on  the  whole  candid. 
A  claimant  for  the  martyr's  crown. 

"And  now,"  said  Skeffington,  imperturbably  continuing 
his  talk,  as  they  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him  to  do  so, 
"I  will  borrow  the  oil  if  you'll  let  me,  and  leave  Moore 
to  his  work.     I  didn't  realize  that  he'd  be  writing." 

"I  wasn't." 

"Is  the  pen  and  paper  there  for  mere  swank?  I'll 
come  in  again  earlier  one  evening  if  I  may?  Perhaps 
I  might  even  bring  Badoureau?  Or  Evandine?  That 
would  be  very  kind  of  you.  Oh,  by  the  way!  I  was 
going  to  tell  you.    I  don't  know  if  either  of  you  has  been 


234  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

doing  wrong  recently?"  He  looked  from  Stephen  to 
Priscilla,  and  back  again,  with  an  assumed  air  of 
gravity. 

"I  don't  know  of  anything,"  said  Priscilla,  hesitatingly. 

"Not  recently,"  answered  Stephen,  with  a  dry  smile. 

"It's  very  curious.  I've  been  out  in  my  front  garden, 
where  I'm  waging  a  warfare  against  the  green  fly  on  my 
roses;  and  as  you  know  a  novelist  always  sleeps  with 
one  eye  open " 

"Why  is  that?"  interrupted  Priscilla. 

"Oh,  because  he  can't  be  in  two  places  at  once,"  replied 
Skeffington,  "like  a  bird.  Well — that  interferes  with  my 
narrative.  It's  a  digression,  and  according  to  the  news- 
papers digressions  in  a  modern  book  are  a  sort  of  rubbish. 
However.  While  I  was  dealing  out  justice  to  the  green 
fly  and  to  those  disgusting  things  which  I  believe  are 
called  cuckoo-spit  ...  I  became  aware  .  .  ."  His  voice 
declined  to  a  note  of  mystery.  "I  became  aware  that 
visitors  to  The  Grove,  come  no  doubt  to  see  the  house  of 
the  lamented  Du  Maurier,  had  a  spy,  or  watcher  by  the 
threshold.  ...  In  fact,  I  was  not  alone.  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  mean  Romeo?"  inquired  Priscilla,  with 
a  pang. 

"Romeo?" 

"Our  little  cat." 

"No — not  Romeo.  But  a  most  wonderfully  attractive 
spy  or  detective  or  dogger  of  footsteps.  I  can  only 
suppose  he  was  that,  because  when  I  poked  my  head 
over  the  hedge  he  looked  chagrined  and  departed.  Now, 
don't  you  think  that's  remarkable?  I  should  lock  up 
your  silver!" 

"How  alarming!"  said  Priscilla.    "Where  was  he?" 

"Up  and  down  here  .  .  .  standing  at  the  end  cottage 
.  .  .  always  stealing  glances,  for  he  could  steal  nothing 
else,  at  this  house.  I  thought  it  only  right  to  tell 
you." 


CONFIDENCES  235 

Stephen  appeared  much  interested. 

"A  shabby  man?"  he  asked. 

"On  the  contrary.    Dressed  to  the  nines." 

"Young  or  old?" 

"Well-preserved  old.  He  looked  something  like  the 
Silver  King  .  .  .  grey-haired,  but  of  the  old  actor  type. 
...  In  a  blue  serge  suit,  with  a  spotted  necktie  and  a 
delightful  spotted  handkerchief  emerging  from  an  outer 
pocket.  I  noticed  all  this  particularly  because  I'm  a 
novelist,  and  novelists,  you  are  aware,  see  everything. 
Novelists  of  my  kind,  sedulously  collecting  our  meticulous 
detail,  are  the  merest  walking  spy-glasses." 

During  this  speech,  after  the  very  beginning,  the 
Moores  had  paid  little  attention  to  what  was  being  said. 
Stephen  was  biting  his  lip  and  smiling  with  a  look  of 
weariness ;  and  Priscilla  was  frowning,  puzzled.  What 
did  it  mean?  What  was  the  sense  of  it?  First  Roy,  then 
the  name  of  the  mysterious  girl  or  woman,  and  finally 
this  story  of  a  watcher  easily  recognizable  to  both  of 
them. 

"Now,"  said  Skeffington,  "I  see  I've  given  you  a 
tiresome  quarter  of  an  hour!  I  see  you  recognize  the 
old  man.  And  Mrs.  Moore  is  going  to  let  me  rummage 
for  my  oil." 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Priscilla 
and  a  most  sinister  inflexion  of  his  voice.  "You're  quite 
right.     I  do  recognize  the  old  man." 


Ill 

After  Skeffington  had  gone,  Priscilla  said : 
"Stephen:  the  old  man  is  evidently  being  a  nuisance 
to  you.  It's  getting  on  my  nerves.  Can't  you  tell  me 
what  it's  all  about?"  Then  she  went  on,  with  her  heart 
suddenly  beating  a  trifle  faster :  "Is  it  this  Minnie  Bayley 
that  Roy  spoke  about?" 


236  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Stephen  gave  her  no  encouragement  to  proceed  further. 
He  sat  down  again  at  the  table,  and  examined  his  pen. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "The  old  man's  past  a  joke.  I  must 
find  a  means  of  stopping  him,  or  he'll  be  spoiling  our 
lives.  There's  no  question  of  it.  Now,  dear,  I  must 
just  try  and  think  what  to  do  about  the  old  man,  and 
then  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"You'll  tell  me  all  about "     She  broke  off,  not 

wishing  to  show  her  joy. 

"Yes.  About  Minnie  Bayley,"  said  Stephen,  patiently, 
and  then  sat  quiet  for  a  few  minutes.  Presently  he  took 
a  sheet  of  notepaper  from  their  escritoire  and  wrote  a 
very  short  note.     This  he  sealed  and  stamped. 

And  all  this  time  Priscilla  sat  in  her  chair  watching  him 
at  his  task.  When  she  saw  him  thus,  and  with  her  mind 
entirely  at  rest,  she  allowed  her  memory  to  call  up  the 
Stephen  of  an  earlier  time — a  Stephen  more  abrupt  than 
this  one,  dogged,  more  assertive,  uncompromising.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  this  later  Stephen  was  different.  It 
was  matter  for  thought  that  he  should  have  changed,  and 
matter  also  for  speculation.  She  knew  nothing  of  his 
life  since  their  parting,  save  that  he  had  been  working 
hard  and  without  hope.  He  had  told  her  that  during 
the  whole  time  of  their  estrangement  he  had  been  practi- 
cally in  despair,  and  that  even  his  ambition  had  been 
blunted.  Instead  of  planning  futures  he  had  been  scan- 
ning pasts;  instead  of  hopes  he  had  had  regrets.  Well, 
that,  she  knew,  was  over  now :  his  hope,  although  rarely 
expressed,  was  deeper  (if  less  ardent  and  sanguine)  than 
her  own.  She  could  therefore  only  imagine  what  must 
have  been  his  state  during  all  the  months  when  he  had 
been  dead  to  her.  Priscilla  knew  that  he  must  have  gone 
about  his  work — as  she  had  gone  about  her  pastime — 
with  no  outward  sign  of  grief;  but  she  knew  that  the 
changes  so  clearly  observable  as  she  sat  looking  at  him 
this  evening  had  been  graven  in  that  black  time  so  deeply 


CONFIDENCES  237 

that  they  would  never  be  erased.  All  that  her  mother 
had  read  in  his  face,  of  pride,  of  pain,  and  of  endurance, 
was  as  apparent  to  Priscilla.  She  knew  very  much  of 
Stephen's  nature,  although  she  was  still  bewildered  by 
it.  She  knew,  as  women  often  seem  to  know  things, 
implicitly.  She  could  not  have  expressed  her  knowledge ; 
but  she  could  with  complete  authority  have  criticized  any 
analysis  that  might  have  been  made.  She  could  not  have 
said,  "Thus  and  thus  is  my  husband"  (it  would  not  have 
occurred  to  her  to  say  it)  ;  but  if  one  had  said  to  her, 
"Thus  and  thus  your  husband  must  be,"  Priscilla's 
reception  of  that  theme  would  have  been  unerringly  just, 
in  spite  of  her  love. 

She  wondered  about  Stephen  incessantly.  Her  own 
nature  did  not  so  greatly  interest  her,  excepting  as  it 
answered  or  did  not  answer  to  Stephen's  need.  He  was 
her  boy ;  she  no  longer  had  any  hope  that  was  not  bound 
up  with  him.  She  hoped  for  a  baby  because  it  would  be 
also  his  baby.  She  hoped  for  his  success,  his  recognition, 
because  it  seemed  to  her  that  that  must  be  what  he  was 
in  the  world  for.  She  could  not  think  he  was  only  in  the 
world  to  make  her  happy.  There  must,  with  Stephen, 
be  some  other  end.  His  recognition  was  to  her  more 
important  than  any  worldly  success.  To  Priscilla  Stephen 
was  definitely  the  writer  of  all  those  whom  she  knew  who 
most  deserved  to  be  acknowledged  as  a  personal  talent. 
He  was  not  simply  a  dilettante,  not  a  poseur,  not  a 
mediocrity,  not  a  snob,  not  a  mandarin,  not  a  toady,  not 
a  busybody;  and  she  thought  that  a  journalistic  critic 
who  was  none  of  these  things  deserved  well  of  those  who 
prized  literature  as  one  of  the  greatest  things  in  life. 

But  above  all  she  loved  him.  He  was  her  lover.  If 
he  had  been  as  poor  in  talent  as  he  was  poor  in  pocket 
she  could  still  have  thought  him  the  one  man;  although 
that  is  too  glaring  a  hypothesis  to  urge,  because  Stephen's 
talent  was  to  her  so  much  involved  in  the  personality  she 


238  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

loved.  To  say  that  we  should  love  a  man  even  though 
he  lacked  the  quality  we  recognize  as  most  specifically 
his,  is  to  say  that  we  love  some  husk,  and  not  the  man. 
But  with  Priscilla  it  may  be  said  that  she  meant  that  if 
Stephen  had  been  no  writer  (as  Nanki  Poo  was  "no 
musician"),  but,  thinking  as  he  did,  had  followed  some 
other  occupation,  she  would  still  have  loved  him.  Her 
desire  for  his  recognition  was  thus  not  a  form  of  vanity 
or  what  is  called  snobbery,  but  a  religious  desire  that  right 
should  triumph. 

When  Priscilla  thought  how  much  she  loved  Stephen 
her  eyes  half  closed  and  a  flush  stole  into  her  cheeks.  In 
delicious  reverie  she  recalled  a  thousand  things  that  she 
would  always  remember,  a  thousand  glances,  speeches, 
actions,  belonging  to  herself  and  Stephen  alone,  unclaim- 
able  by  anybody  else  in  the  world,  because  she  and  Stephen 
alone  understood  them  and  alone  of  all  others  would 
never  forget  them.  She  remembered  their  first  meeting, 
other  meetings,  their  quarrel,  word  for  word  the  letters 
they  had  exchanged,  her  slow,  unbelieving  sorrow  that 
he  never  came,  settling  into  a  dim  bewildered  acquiescence 
in  the  passing  of  time  but  never  acceptance  of  the  fact 
that  they  were  severed  for  ever.  She  remembered  the 
scene  at  the  dinner-table  over  Stephen's  review  of  her 
father's  book,  the  sight  of  his  acceptance  of  David's 
invitation,  their  meeting  .  .  .  and  their  talk.  She  had 
long  given  up  blushing  at  the  memory  of  her  part  in  the 
talk,  which  so  definitely  had  led  to  his  confession.  She 
now  only  rejoiced  in  it,  with  a  secret  abandonment  to 
pride.  She  remembered  the  moment  of  his  meeting  with 
Hilary  on  that  same  afternoon  and  again  when  he  brought 
Dorothy  to  Totteridge;  and  the  time  when  she  and  her 
mother  and  David  had  gone  to  tea  at  Islington — when 
Stephen  had  given  her  the  ring;  and  many  meetings 
thereafter  during  their  engagement.  As  she  remembered 
her  wedding  day  her  thoughts  seemed  to  beat  unquestion- 


CONFIDENCES  239 

ingly  a  slower  measure,  as  though  there  was  too  much  to 
be  remembered  at  any  but  a  slow  pace  which  allowed  of 
disentanglement;  for  the  memories  of  that  thrilling  day 
were  crowded  so  thickly  as  to  be  almost  painful  in  their 
number  and  intensity.  She  could  remember  Biddy  awak- 
ing her  by  drawing  back  the  curtains  to  admit  the  warm 
sun,  and  Biddy  saying  in  a  prim  voice  that  began  to 
tremble  and  then  became  quite  natural  and  loud,  some- 
thing to  the  effect  that  it  was  a  lovely  day  "for  it,"  and 
that  she  hoped  .  .  .  And  Priscilla  went  on  remembering 
her  mother's  coming,  and  Dorothy  .  .  .  And  then  all 
the  people  looking  in  on  the  way  to  church,  and  the  little 
breathless  drive  there.  .  .  .  The  recollection  made  her 
breathe  faster.  She  could  see  again,  with  such  moving 
reality  that  the  tears  started,  the  little  bungalow  upon 
the  down,  so  lovely  in  its  solitude,  and  so  buried  among 
the  beautiful  down  and  valley  land  and  the  barely 
chequered  green  of  the  magic  vistas.  .  .  . 

While  Priscilla  thought  thus  of  their  past  days  Stephen 
was  bent  upon  their  future.  He  had  written  the  letter 
that  was  to  do  so  much.  His  resolve  was  clearly  taken. 
With  his  back  to  Priscilla  he  stood  by  the  table  with  the 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  as  he  thought  he  was  idly  twisting 
the  letter  between  his  finger  and  thumb  so  that  the 
corners  nicked  successively  upon  the  bare  table.  At  last 
he  turned  towards  Priscilla.  He  was  very  pale  indeed. 
Some  emotion  seemed  to  have  changed  his  face  entirely, 
so  that  his  eyes  looked  like  dying  lights  in  far-sunken 
sockets,  and  so  that  his  cheeks  were  thin  and  ashen.  As 
she  saw  the  change  Priscilla  was  so  shocked  that  instinc- 
tively she  went  towards  him,  stretching  out  loving  arms. 
But  Stephen  only  kissed  her  very  quietly,  and  bade  her 
wait  until  he  had  posted  the  letter. 

He  was  away  from  the  house  for  only  two  or  three 
minutes;  and  when  he  came  back  he  methodically  took 
off  his  boots  and  put  on  his  slippers,  just  as  he  might  have 


240  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

done  upon  returning  from  an  ordinary  journey  to  town. 
Then  he  took  a  little  arm-chair  opposite  to  her.  Priscilla 
slipped  from  her  own  chair  and  brought  a  hassock  to  his 
side,  so  that  she  sat  close  beside  him,  with  her  arm  upon 
his  knees  and  his  arm  round  her  shoulders. 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  about  Minnie  Bayley,"  he  said,  in 
a  very  low  voice. 


CHAPTER  XIV:  STEPHEN'S  NARRATIVE 


FOR  a  few  minutes  they  sat  together,  looking  at  the 
small  Japanese  screen  that  hid  the  bars  of  the  empty 
grate,  and  the  faint  glow  of  the  lamplight  sought  and 
revealed  the  gold  in  Priscilla's  hair,  and  threw  the  books 
beside  the  fireplace  into  a  pleasant  shadow  of  dusky  gilt 
and  impalpable  colour.  Their  heads  were  very  near,  and 
Stephen  could  feel  Priscilla's  heart  beating  against  his 
knee.  With  his  left  hand  he  had  taken  her  hand,  so  lightly 
that  she  scarcely  felt  his  touch,  and  only  was  aware  of 
it  for  the  stronger  pulsing  of  the  blood  in  his  finger-tips. 
In  that  little  silence  she  turned  her  face  to  him. 

"I  was  only  curious,  Stephen.  ...  If  it's  not  some- 
thing that  hurts  you  .  .  ."  she  said,  in  a  quick  eager 
murmur.  "You  see,  dear,  you've  only  to  say  you'd  rather 
not.  .  .  .  It's  so  very  nice  here,  isn't  it,  when  we're  quite 
alone,  you  and  I.  I  think  I'm  getting  just  a  little  fright- 
ened because  you  looked  so  strange."  She  leant  back,  so 
that  she  might  look  up  into  his  face  and  offer  her  lips 
for  his  kiss. 

It  was  then  that  Stephen,  having  decided  how  he  would 
begin  his  story,  pressed  her  hand  to  show  that  he  was 
ready. 

"Though  it's  an  uncomfortable  story,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  "and  one  that  would  have  been  better  told  long  ago. 
I'll  begin  right  at  the  beginning  as  nearly  as  I  can.  Well, 
you  remember  that  I've  told  you  all  about  the  way  we 
lived  in  those  two  upper  floors  in  Islington.  The  old  man 
had  one  room  to  himself,  and  Dorothy  another,  and  Roy 
and  1  shared  the  third.  I  just  want  to  remind  you  of 
that,  so  that  you  can  see  that  we  had  the  whole  of  the 

241 


242  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

top  of  the  house.  On  the  floor  below  us  there  lived  a 
commercial  traveller  named  Bayley." 

Priscilla  gave  a  start.  He  felt  her  arm  jerk;  but  she 
did  not  interrupt  him. 

"I'm  speaking,"  he  continued,  "of  a  good  time  ago 
now,  you  must  remember.  Getting  on  for  four  or  five 
years  ago.  Well,  at  that  time  I  met  your  father  between 
Barnet  and  Elstree,  and  he  took  me  home,  and  I  met 
you.  I  went  on  coming,  went  on  seeing  you,  and  somehow 
it  happened  that  we  saw  each  other  very  often.  But  you 
had  a  friend  who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  I — 
because  I  thought  I  recognized  some  things  in  her  that 
gave  me  a  lot  of  anxiety  for  you — told  you  you  oughtn't 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  her.  I  was  convinced  that 
she  was  one  of  those  wretched  girls.  .  .  ." 

"It's  all  right,  Stephen,"  said  Priscilla.  "You  were 
quite  right  about  Ivy.     Quite  right." 

"But  you  didn't  think  so,  and  we  had  a  great  row. 
You  told  me  you  never  wanted  to  see  me  any  more." 

"Did  I  really  say  that?  Oh,  how  beastly  I  must  have 
been !"  She  pressed  her  face  against  his  for  an  instant. 
"And  yet  you  believed  it.  .  .  .  Oh,  Stephen!" 

"I  came  away  from  Totteridge  in  a  dreadful  anger, 
and  all  the  way  home  I  was  still  madly  angry.  Then  I 
began  to  cool,  and  to  see  that  even  if  I'd  been  right  in 
fact  I'd  been  wrong  to  quarrel  with  you.  It  seemed  that 
that  was  the  worst  sort  of  treachery  to  you,  when  I'd 
meant  to  protect  you.  .  .  .  And  I  hadn't  been  able  really 
to  warn  you  because  I  hadn't  liked  to  say  to  you  what 
I  thought  about  her.  I  began  to  wonder  how  I  could 
apologize,  how  get  back  again,  so  that  our  friendship 
should  keep  on.  But  something  your  father  had  said  to 
me — something  that  wasn't  meant  to  apply  to  me  at  all, 
of  course — made  me  think  about  the  kind  of  life  I 
belonged  to  and  the  kind  of  life  you  had  led.  I  began 
to  ask  why  it  was  that  I  felt  so  deeply  all  that  you'd  said. 


STEPHEN'S  NARRATIVE  243 

Because  you  did  rather  rake  my  character  in  your  tem- 
pest. ...  I  suddenly  saw  that  I'd  been  slipping  into  love 
with  you,  so  that  the  thought  of  never  seeing  you  again 
was  an  agony.  I  began  to  write  all  sorts  of  letters  to 
you,  begging  you  to  forgive,  to  take  me  back — on  any 
terms;  but  at  that  time  the  old  man  was  doing  rather 
well,  and  that  meant  that  he  was  drinking  a  great  deal, 
and  never  coming  home  sober.  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Stephen !" 

"I'd  never  told  you  about  him.  Never  told  your 
mother  and  father.  I  think  I  almost  let  them  think  I 
was  alone  in  the  world.  I  don't  want  to  get  mixed  here ; 
but  to  show  you  the  three  things.  There  was  my  quarrel 
with  you — which  was  very  bitter " 

"But  not  on  your  side,  Stephen.  I  can't  remember  a 
word  of  yours  that  rankles." 

"No.  I  was  only  angry  with  you  for  being  so  loyal. 
My  anger  was  chiefly  with  myself  for  having  been  a  fool ; 
but  my  hatred,  all  that  made  the  whole  thing  bitter,  was 
directed  against  Ivy.  There  was  my  quarrel  with  you, 
there  was  the  phrase  your  father  had  dropped  (which  I 
construed,  I  believe  unwarrantably,  into  a  hint  that  I  was 
coming  too  often),  and  which  certainly  showed  that  he 
was  a  little  tired  of  having  me  with  him.  Finally,  there 
was  the  old  man  rolling  in  gorgeously  drunk  night  after 
night.  I  thought  to  myself  that  these  three  things  were 
all  incompatible  with  my  feelings.  They  were  quite  in- 
compatible. They  made  the  whole  situation  quite  impos- 
sible. Whatever  love  I  might  have  for  you  could  never 
please  your  father.  It  didn't  please  him  even  so  late  as  a 
year  ago.  You  seemed  wholly  to  despise  me.  The  old  man 
was  making  me  despair.  I  think  I  really  must  have  gone 
mad  at  that  time.  I  felt  as  though  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done,  that  everything,  every  possible  outlook,  was 
misery.  I  don't  want  to  exaggerate  all  this,  but  I  want 
to  show  you  that  I  felt  absolutely  cut  off  from  you.    The 


244  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

more  I  thought  of  you  the  greater  the  agony.  I  told  you 
I  wrote  letters.  But  I  tore  them  up,  one  after  the  other 
— tore  them  up  and  I  think  burned  up  every  hope  I  had 
with  the  pieces.  I  used  to  stand  watching  them  burn,  and 
used  to  go  to  bed  and  lie  quite  rigid  to  keep  myself  from 
crying  out  and  waking  Roy,  who  was  in  the  same  bed. 
And  the  knowledge  soaked  into  me  that  I  could  never 
come  to  Totteridge  again — because  I  was  horribly  poor 
and  your  father  was  far  from  poor,  because  my  father 
had  degenerated  into  a  wretched  toper,  because  1  was  an 
ignorant  chap  who  hadn't  even  learned  how  to  treat  the 
one  he  loved." 

As  the  narration  had  proceeded,  Stephen's  voice  had 
grown  drier  and  drier,  until  it  was  little  above  a  whisper ; 
but  Priscilla  heard  every  word,  and  when  he  paused  for 
a  moment  it  was  only  because  his  mouth  seemed  to  be 
wholly  parched. 

ii 

"That's  the  beginning  of  the  story,  dear.  It's  a  long 
exordium ;  but  it  was  necessary  so  that  you  should  under- 
stand what  follows.  This  is  the  real  story.  I  told  you 
that  the  floor  below  us  was  occupied  by  a  commercial 
traveller,  but  I  didn't  tell  you  any  more.  This  man,  being 
a  drinker,  struck  up — although  he  was  much  younger  than 
the  old  man — a  sort  of  acquaintance  with  my  father. 
They  used  to  meet  when  the  man  was  in  the  City,  at  those 
times  when  he  was  travelling  in  London — not  as  friends, 
but  in  a  sort  of  casual  way.  I  suppose  that,  as  the  phrase 
is,  they  'used  the  same  houses,'  which  means  that  they 
went  into  the  same  public-house  at  the  same  times,  and 
saw  each  other  there.  This  man  Bayley  was  a  perfect 
rascal,  and  no  doubt  is  to  this  minute,  as  he's  still  alive. 
.  .  .  He  used  shamefully  to  ill-treat  Minnie,  who  was  his 
wife." 


STEPHEN'S  NARRATIVE  245 

"His  wife!"  cried  Priscilla,  growing  pale.  Then  she 
sighed,  and  her  eyes  closed. 

"We  used  to  hear  him  throwing  things  about  on  the 
floor  below,  and  she  sometimes  came  upstairs  to  escape 
from  him.  That  was  when  I  was  working  very  late  at 
night,  reading  and  trying  to  write,  as  you  know  I  used 
to.  The  others  were  all  in  bed,  the  old  man  perhaps  out, 
but  always  the  children  were  in  bed,  and  didn't  hear  the 
noise  clearly  enough  to  wake  them.  One  night  I  went 
downstairs  when  it  was  extra  bad,  and  threatened  to  beat 
Bay  ley  if  he  didn't  leave  off.  When  I  went  into  the  room 
he  was  there,  and  she,  in  her  nightdress,  was  lying  on  the 
floor  half  stunned.  So  I  knocked  him  down,  and  said  I'd 
call  in  the  police  if  there  was  any  more  of  it.  Then  I 
helped  Mrs.  Bayley  up  and  heard  no  more  that  night. 
You  mustn't  suppose  that  this  went  on  every  night.  He 
was  often  away — what  is  called  'on  journey' — and  some- 
times for  a  fortnight  at  a  time  she  used' to  be  alone  in 
her  rooms.  Quite  alone,  you  understand.  I  don't  think 
she  knew  anybody  at  all.  I  never  heard  her  mention  a 
friend,  and  to  this  moment  I  don't  know  where  she  was 
born  and  if  she  has  any  relatives  living.  Well,  she  often 
came  upstairs  to  our  room  when  she  was  alone,  to  where 
I  was  working,  because  she  was  very  lonely;  and  she'd 
sit  with  me  and  we'd  talk  about  all  sorts  of  things,  but 
mostly  about  my  work  and  Dorothy  and  Roy,  and  what 
she  wished  she  could  do.  And  in  this  way  a  sort  of 
friendship  grew  up  between  us.  She  was  wretched,  as 
I  was.  She  was  older  than  I  was ;  but  I  think  very  little 
older;  and  I  don't  know  which  of  us  was  the  more 
wretched  until  we  found  that  we  could  cheer  each  other 
up  like  this.  I  used  to  advise  her  to  leave  Bayley;  but 
she  could  never  bring  herself  to  do  that.  I  think  if  I'd 
suggested — or  been  able  to  suggest — anything  definite 
she  might  have  done  it ;  but  she  didn't  know  what  she 
could  do  to  earn  a  living  if  she  left  him.     And  then  of 


246  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

course  he  was  not  very  constantly  at  home,  and  wasn't 
always  in  this  particular  brutal  state.  It's  a  curious  thing 
that  with  such  men  brutality  alternates  with  a  meaning- 
less unreflecting  generosity.  When  he  had  been  away, 
and  even  sometimes  when  he  was  in  London,  he  would 
bring  her  home  little  hampers  of  fish,  or  oysters ;  or  some- 
times remnants  of  material  that  she  could  make  dresses 
from,  as  she  was  a  clever  dressmaker;  or  fruit  and 
flowers — always  grapes  during  the  winter,  and  when  they 
were  to  be  had  he'd  bring  in  great  loads  of  squashy 
strawberries,  running  through  the  paper  bags.  He'd  do 
that  sometimes  when  he  was  most  drunk,  and  come  in 
crying  with  a  kind  of  copious  watery  love  for  her,  the 
most  disagreeable  sight  you  can  imagine,  sentimental  and 
loathsome.  .  .  .  She'd  then  have  to  put  him  to  bed,  and 
sometimes  she'd  sit  up  all  night — just  because  she  couldn't 
go  into  the  bedroom  where  he  was.  I  was  terribly  sorry 
for  her,  and  the  more  sorry  because  I  didn't  seem  able 
to  do  anything  to  help  her.  She'd  sometimes  be  crying 
when  she  came  up  to  me,  and  all  I  could  ineptly  say  would 
be,  'For  goodness'  sake,  don't  cry,  Minnie,'  and  dab  her 
eyes  with  my  handkerchief.  There  wasn't  anything  else, 
you  see,  I  could  do.  So  that  gradually  we  slipped  into 
a  kind  of  wretched  bewildering  affection — poor  enough, 
but  quite  genuine,  because  we  were  both  unhappy  and 
lonely.   .   .  ." 

"Stephen  darling!"  gasped  Priscilla.  "I  can't  .  .  . 
can't  bear  any  more.  .  .  ."  She  was  convulsively  grip- 
ping his  hand  while  his  dry  voice  went  on,  as  if  wearily, 
repeating  the  plain  tale  he  had  resolved  to  tell. 

"You'd  better  let  me  finish,  my  dearest,"  he  begged. 
"You'll  think  perhaps  I'm  trying  to  make  an  elaborate 
defence  of  myself  ?  I'm  not  trying  to  do  that  at  all.  I'm 
only  telling  you  exactly  what  happened.  Well,  you 
remember  that  you  wrote  to  me  to  beg  my  pardon  for 
the  quarrel.  ...  I  hate  seeming  to  mix  you  up  in  this; 


STEPHEN'S  NARRATIVE  247 

but  I'm  bound  to  explain  about  that  letter  and  my  answer 
to  it,  because  it's  all  a  part  of  that  particular  time.  When 
I  got  your  letter  I  was  nearly  frantic.  It  was  such  a 
friendly  little  letter  and  made  me  see  you  so  clearly, 
reminding  me  of  all  the  happiness  we'd  had  together. 
You  remember  that  I  didn't  answer  it  for  several  days. 
That  was  because  I  was  struggling  with  myself.  I  didn't 
know,  and  couldn't  think,  what  on  earth  to  do.  But  I 
thought  that  as  I'd  broken  with  you,  as  there  had  been 
a  definite  break,  it  would  mean  only  more  and  more  pain 
to  go  on  seeing  you — whether  often  or  seldom — once  I 
had  realized  that  I  loved  you  and  couldn't  hope  ever  to 
offer  you  anything  that  you  could  possibly  accept  or  your 
mother  and  father  consider  for  a  moment.  I  deliberately 
abandoned  you  and  myself.  If  I'd  thought  for  a  moment 
that  you  loved  me  I  couldn't  have  done  it.  I  want  you 
to  believe  that  because  it  is  the  strict  truth.  But  I  never 
supposed  it  possible.  Somehow  when  I  thought  of  you 
I  always  felt  so  entirely  base,  as  though  the  ugly  life  I'd 
had  had  somehow  become  ingrained  in  me  as  if  it  were 
grime  .  .  .  while  you  were  like  some  lovely  little  girl 
that  I  could  hardly  bring  myself  to  touch  in  case  I  might 
soil  you.  I  know  it  was  morbid  to  think  that;  but  you 
see  I  was  bound,  living  the  isolated  life  I  did,  to  be  rather 
morbid.  But  that  wasn't  the  whole  of  it.  You'd  seemed 
to  me  so  always  completely  apart  from  any  idea  of  senti- 
mentality— so  frank  and  friendly,  that  I  couldn't  think 
you  loved  me.  I  thought  you  just  rather  reluctantly  liked 
me.  I  tried  often  to  put  a  construction  of  love  in  my 
memories  of  your  manner,  or  what  you  had  said;  but  I 
never  could  convince  myself.  I  always  came  back  to  the 
certainty  that  any  thought  of  love  between  us  was  quite 
out  of  the  question.  So  I  wrote  back  at  last,  after  I'd 
painfully  thought  the  whole  thing  through  and  through 
until  I  was  sick  of  thinking — what  you  must  have  thought 
a  brutal  letter — and  said  I  thought  I'd  better  not  come, 


248  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

that  I  forgave,  and  begged  forgiveness,  but  that  I  couldn't 
come  yet  as  I  was  so  busy  .  .  .  meaning  all  the  time 
never  to  come  back. 

"And  then  I  turned  to  Minnie  Bayley.  I  used  to  go 
down  to  her  sitting-room  last  thing  at  night  for  supper 
before  going  to  bed,  because  she  had  a  fire  and  I  couldn't 
afford  to  keep  a  fire  in  after  the  children  went  to  bed, 
even  if  we'd  had  one  during  the  evening;  because, 
although  I  was  making  more  money  than  I'd  ever  made 
before,  the  old  man  made  such  inroads  on  it  that  I  was 
still  obliged  to  be  parsimonious.  So  I  used  to  go  down 
to  Minnie's  sitting-room,  and  we  used  to  sit  by  the  fire 
and  have  our  supper  together,  often  in  the  light  of  the 
fire.  And  when  we  did  that  it  was  only  natural  that  we 
should  seem  to  be  quite  alone  in  the  house.  Sometimes 
we  used  to  hear  the  old  man  going  up  the  stairs,  past  our 
closed  door,  rather  unsteadily.  .  .  .  We  used  to  listen 
over  our  shoulders,  and  laugh  with  great  whispered  hush- 
ing and  warning,  and  keep  very  quiet,  until  we  seemed 
to  become  secret,  as  though  we  shared  some  deep  secret, 
and  from  that  we  grew  almost  furtive,  as  though  we  were 
doing  surreptitious  wrong,  and  knew  guiltily  that  we 
were  doing  wrong.  That  used  to  make  us  laugh  in 
whispers,  and  we  grew  bolder.  It  drew  us  together — the 
fact  that  we  mustn't  be  heard  or  seen.  .  .  . 

"Priscilla  ...  I  only  stayed  with  her  once,  for  all 
this.  But  for  that  I  could  still  feel  quite  wholly  innocent 
towards  you,  in  spite  of  all  my  blundering;  but  I  want 
you  to  believe  that  it  was  never  more  than  once.  And 
even  so  it  was  stupid  and  ridiculous  in  its  occasion.  .  .  . 
She  had  suffered  a  great  deal  all  one  evening  from  tooth- 
ache and  was  nearly  mad.  I'd  done  everything  I  knew; 
run  out  and  bought  chloric  ether,  and  oil  of  cloves,  and 
put  hot  fomentations  on  her  face.  .  .  .  We'd  tried  every- 
thing we  could  think  of,  and  she  still  cried  with  the  pain 
— cried  in  my  arms.    And  then  the  pain  suddenly  went 


STEPHEN'S  NARRATIVE  249 

with  two  or  three  great  throbs,  and  she  said  I  had  cured 
her;  and  we  began  laughing  together  in  our  secret  way, 
shamefaced  and  .  .  .  Dearest,  I'm  afraid  you  think  I'm 
luxuriating  in  the  details.  I  can  feel  your  hand  quite 
cold.  I'm  not  luxuriating.  But  I  really  am  defending 
myself  now,  desperately." 

"Oh,  Stephen!"  cried  Priscilla,  in  a  dreadful  voice. 
"Don't  defend  yourself !" 

"Very  well,  dear.  I'll  simply  tell  you.  After  that — 
you  must  remember  that  it  happened  years  ago — I  used 
not  to  go  downstairs  for  a  time,  because  I  felt  guilty.  I 
expect  I  was  simply  a  coward ;  but  at  that  time  I  thought 
that  with  the  temptation  constantly  there  I  was  exercising 
wonderful  self-restraint  in  resisting  it.  The  alternative 
was  to  go  away,  take  her  to  live  with  me,  and  desert  the 
children — Dorothy  and  Roy.  I  couldn't  do  that.  So  I 
worked  always  upstairs,  and  had  my  supper  alone.  Then 
of  course  Minnie  suffered  further  from  my  behaviour, 
from  feeling  that  I  didn't  any  longer  care  for  her ;  and  she 
began  to  think  I'd  been  all  the  time  a  deliberate  intriguer, 
whereas  she  had  only  drifted  into  temptation  because  she 
genuinely  .  .  .  liked  me.  I  had  to  explain  the  whole 
business ;  and  we  agreed  that  we'd  been  unwise  in  doing 
what  so  clearly  in  retrospect  was  shown  to  be  leading 
inevitably  to  our  ruin.  But  we  remained  friends  and 
gradually  slipped  back  into  our  old  friendship,  but  without 
the  sentimental  amorousness  that  we'd  begun  to  hanker 
after.  She  behaved  very  well  indeed.  You  mustn't  think 
she's  a  weak  woman  or  a  bad  lot :  she's  a  real  woman,  as 
I  hope  you'll  one  day  care  to  see  for  yourself.  Though 
I  don't  any  longer  feel  any  least  sort  of  liking  for  her. 
...  It  was  then  that  I  began  really  to  admire  her, 
because  she  was  so  game.  She  accepted  my  weakness, 
and  pretended  to  read  into  it  some  manly  virtue  that  I 
never  dreamt  of  claiming;  and  never  showed,  or  allowed 
me  to  see,  any  of  the  suffering  that  I'd  caused  her  by 


250  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

my  stupidity.  I  only  guessed  at  it.  So  time  went  on, 
and  Bayley  one  day  decided  that  as  he'd  got  some  other 
thing  in  view  he'd  move  away  from  Islington.  Since  then 
I've  seen  Minnie  twice — once  at  our  flat  in  Islington,  and 
once  at  her  new  rooms  somewhere  over  Stoke  Newington 
way,  where  I  went  to  see  her.  The  first  time  was  on  the 
night  1  came  to  Totteridge  again  for  the  first  time  after 
our  quarrel ;  and  that  was  for  only  a  few  minutes  in  the 
company  of  others.  The  second  time  was  when  I  went 
to  tell  her  of  our  engagement.  .  .  . 

"And  I  think  that's  the  whole  story  as  it  affects  Minnie, 
Priscilla." 

iii 

Priscilla  was  quite  silent.  She  did  not  look  up  at  him. 
She  might  have  been  made  of  stone. 

"As  far  as  the  old  man  is  concerned,  there  is  this  to 
tell.  Before  she  came  to  the  flat  the  time  that  I  saw  her, 
Minnie  sent  me  a  note,  saying :  *  You  haven't  been  to  see 
me  in  my  new  flat.  Do  come,'  or  something  to  that 
effect.  I  never  got  that  letter.  The  old  man  took  pos- 
session of  it  and  retains  possession  of  it.  Very  likely 
it  pleased  him  to  think  he  was  becoming  acquainted  with 
my  affairs.  He  apparently  has  told  Bayley,  or  more 
probably  has  not  told  Bayley,  of  the  contents  of  this 
letter,  which  as  far  as  I  can  tell  is  in  no  sense 
incriminating;  and  he  wrote  to  me  while  we  were  at 
the  bungalow " 

"I  remember,"  said  Priscilla  in  a  cold  voice.  Stephen 
could  feel  her  shivering  within  his  arm. 

"Saying  that  I  must  do  something  (of  a  pecuniary 
nature)  to  avoid  being  cited  as  a  co-respondent.  Of 
course  such  a  thing  is  the  merest  blackmailing  bluff,  and 
it's  quite  absolutely  out  of  the  question — absurdly  im- 
possible; but  he  may  try  to  get  money  from  your  father 
by  threatening  some  unpleasant  disclosure " 


STEPHEN'S  NARRATIVE  251 

"Stephen :   father  mustn't  hear  of  it !" 
"I  don't  think  the  old  man  will  tell  him." 
"He  mustn't!"     She  was  consumed  with  agitation  at 
such  a  thought. 

"My  dear.  The  old  man  only  wants  money.  His  desire 
to  injure  me  is  only  a  secondary  consideration.  Or  so  I 
think.  He  might  injure  me  by  going  to  your  father  with 
wild  threats;  but  your  father  isn't  a  fool,  and  is  much 
more  of  a  man  of  the  world  than  I  am;  so  he  wouldn't 
be  blackmailed.  He  would  certainly,  for  your  sake,  dis- 
like the  whole  thing,  and  he  would  think  you  had  a  right 
to  feel  yourself  injured;  but  to  me  as  an  individual,  bear- 
ing in  mind  the  time  that  has  passed,  the  extreme 
unlikelihood  of  any  such  discovery  being  made  and  used 
against  me,  he  would  quite  as  certainly  not  be  severe, 
because  he  would  perfectly  recognize  the  circumstances 
and  their  factors.  Besides,  dear,  the  letter  I've  written 
to  the  old  man  this  evening  will  most  likely  stop  the  whole 
thing  as  far  as  he's  concerned.  You're  not  to  worry 
about  that.  I'm  quite  able  to  deal  with  it.  The  only 
thing  for  you  is  the  fact,  and  I've  now  told  you  that  quite 
without  reserve.  The  fact,  and  the  way  in  which  it  may 
affect  your  feelings  for  me.  But  there's  one  point  I  hope 
you  won't  altogether  leave  out  of  account.  There  isn't 
anything — any  other  thing  in  my  whole  life — that  you 
couldn't  be  quite  sure  of.  Apart  from  this  one  thing — 
which  is  fully  four  years  old — I've  done  nothing  that  I 
should  be  ashamed  for  you  to  discover  by  accident  or  for 
yourself.     What  I've  told  you  is  the  truth." 

Priscilla  withdrew  her  arm  from  his  knee,  her  head 
from  his  hand.     She  was  as  if  dazed. 

"Yes,  Stephen,"  she  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  as 
though  she  were  trembling  with  cold.  "I  quite  under- 
stand. Not  any  more  to-night.  I  couldn't — really 
couldn't  bear  to  talk  to-night.  I  shall  go  to  bed  now. 
.  .  .  But  I  feel  as  though  my  heart  were  frozen  up." 


252  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

She  was  going  away  from  him  when  she  suddenly 
checked  herself  and  came  back,  holding  her  face  up  like 
a  tired  child  for  his  good-night  kiss.  For  a  moment, 
speechless,  they  stood  embraced ;  and  then  she  was  gone. 
Stephen  turned  back  and  rested  his  head  on  his  arms, 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece.  Both  were  coldly,  dully 
unhappy,  as  though  day  would  not  dawn  on  the  morrow 
— as  though  this  were  one  of  the  dead  moments  in  life 
which,  when  they  occur,  seem  to  promise  no  ultimate 
recompense.  To  both,  such  an  estrangement  was  the 
worst  punishment  that  could  with  the  greatest  ingenuity 
have  been  devised. 


CHAPTER  XV:  AFTERWARDS 


THAT  night  Priscilla  did  not  sleep  at  all.  At  first 
she  was  too  coldly  unhappy  to  cry,  and  afterwards 
she  was  too  proud.  Everything  upon  which  she  had 
so  confidently  counted  had  failed  her,  and  she  was 
bitterly  alone.  By  an  irony,  the  one  person  to  whom  she 
could  turn  for  love  and  sympathy  was  Stephen,  who  had 
injured  her.  For  a  time  she  was  deeply  shocked  by  the 
sense  that  the  whole  of  her  ungrudged  gift  to  Stephen 
had  been  sullied — that  he  himself  had  been  soiled — which 
made  of  marriage  something  that  to  him  was  less  of  a 
sacred  rite  and  more  of  a  current  experience  to  be  taken 
in  his  stride.  It  spoilt  everything  to  think  that  he  was 
less  innocent  than  she  was  herself.  Upon  that  one  belief 
she  had  based  so  much  of  her  joy.  Then  there  followed 
the  understanding  that  equally  shocked  her  confidence  in 
him — that  he  had  been  dealing  with  this  matter,  secretly 
and  unconfessed,  since  their  marriage  and  even  upon  their 
honeymoon.  He  had  practised,  from  whatever  motive, 
but  from  a  motive  first  of  all  that  seemed  to  her  to  have 
been  fear,  a  wretched  duplicity.  Priscilla  took  Stephen's 
story  very  hard.  If  he  could  deceive  her,  if  she  were  only 
one  woman  in  his  life,  she  felt  she  had  nothing  more  to 
say  to  him.  It  was  as  though  one  should  find  a  love  all 
upon  one  side.  She,  undoubting,  had  come  to  him  with 
all  her  heart  alive  and  fresh  with  trust :  he  became,  in  her 
thoughts  at  this  time,  a  sinister  figure  cynically  taking 
her  innocence  as  so  much  virgin  sport,  dishonouring 
her.  ... 

Very  quietly,  with  an  extreme  stealth,  she  turned  from 
side  to  side,  restless  and  incapable  of  resting.  She  could 
not  think  of  anything  for  the  dumb  pain  that  was  at  her 

253 


254  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

heart.  Her  thought  was  only,  "Oh,  how  could  he!  how 
could  he!"  and  all  those  other  passionate  knowledges 
and  reactions  swept  through  her  conscience  unexpressed. 
Did  Stephen  sleep?  Could  he  sleep?  Holding  herself 
very  still  she  listened  for  his  breathing  as  he  lay  so  quietly 
beside  her.  She  could  hear  nothing.  He  must  be  sleep- 
ing. He  had  told  his  story,  without  hesitation,  without 
any  appeal  for  her  kindness;  and  when  that  was  done 
and  her  happiness  destroyed  he  could  sleep  as  if  there 
had  been  nothing  to  interrupt  their  peace.  How  terrible ! 
How  impossible  that  he  could  understand  the  feelings  he 
had  aroused  in  her.  As  she  listened  she  thought  she  could 
hear  a  deep,  suppressed  sigh;  but  then  there  was  again 
silence,  and  the  dull  ejaculations  of  her  wounded  heart 
absorbed  her.  It  was  her  hour  of  extremest  pain,  a  pain 
that  racked  her  spirit  as  nothing  else  could  ever  do.  The 
feeling  that  she  was  betrayed,  that  she  could  not  now 
trust  anybody  in  the  world,  was  poignantly  hers.  When 
she  tried  to  steady  her  mind,  to  ask  herself  for  some 
calmer  mood  of  charity,  such  a  demand  was  brushed  away 
by  the  swift  indignation,  the  horror,  that  thrilled  her  each 
moment  in  fresh  gusts  of  dismay.  It  was  useless  for 
Priscilla  to  try  to  see  coolly  the  causes  or  the  consequences 
of  Stephen's  silence  and  the  newly  told  story.  She  hated 
Stephen;  because  he  had  made  their  marriage  an  ugly 
reality.  They  were  not  married.  She  didn't  love  him. 
With  that  sort  of  cold  anger  she  repelled  the  thought  of 
him.  It  was  such  pride  that  kept  her  from  crying;  and  if 
she  had  cried  she  must  have  turned  blindly  to  Stephen 
and  found  a  miserable  unstable  relief  in  his  arms. 

So  the  night  passed  and  the  early  morning  came  with 
the  blithe  chirpings  of  the  birds  in  their  little  garden. 
She  heard  them  before  she  knew  that  it  was  day,  and 
then  she  watched  the  pale  cool  light  come  gently  through 
the  curtains  and  tint  the  walls.  She  knew  that  the  dew 
wras  still  shaking  the  tender  grass,  and   felt  the  slow 


AFTERWARDS  255 

beams  of  the  rising  sun  growing  warmer  until  all  that 
fresh  chill  of  the  morning  had  passed  and  the  bright  hot 
day  had  already  begun.  It  was  a  day,  she  felt,  so  clear, 
so  free  from  any  cloud,  as  to  make  more  wretched  the 
sorrow  within  doors.  .  .  .  And  in  thinking  that,  she 
allowed  her  eyes  to  close  again,  and  fell  suddenly  into 
a  heavy  sleep.  It  was  not  until  much  later  that  she  awoke, 
with  the  sun  shining  full  into  the  room;  and  Stephen 
was  no  longer  in  bed. 

What  was  she  to  do?  What  was  there  she  could  do? 
It  was  an  insoluble  question.  She  was  only  so  tired,  so 
entirely  weary  of  her  aching  thoughts,  that  she  longed  to 
sleep  again.  Her  head  was  throbbing,  her  eyes  were 
heavy.  And  she  must  somehow  face  Stephen.  Somehow 
she  must  decide  what  she  was  to  do.  It  was  too  much 
trouble  to  decide  upon  anything!  It  meant  too  much 
more  pain ! 

Priscilla  turned  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow, 
pressing  her  arms  tightly  about  her  head,  and  lying  there 
in  a  sort  of  lethargic  suspension  of  thought.  She  was 
enduring  the  passing  of  that  dreary  moment.  And  it  was 
while  she  lay  thus  that  Stephen  returned. 

"Come,  dear."  She  heard  his  voice  close  to  her.  He 
wras  there.  She  could  not  move.  It  was  impossible  for 
her  to  move.  She  could  not  bear  him  to  see  her  face. 
She  felt  his  ha/id  laid  gently  upon  her  shoulder.  "Dearest, 
if  you  take  it  so  badly  you'll  be  ill.  Punish  me,  if  you 
like;  be  cruel  to  me.  But  don't  be  hard  with  yourself." 
Priscilla  could  hear  his  earnest  entreaty.  It  shook  her 
pride :  she  had  not,  she  never  had  had,  the  desire  to 
punish. 

"Oh,  Stephen :  I'm  so  wretched !"  It  was  her  con- 
fession, pitifully  and  inevitably  the  turning  to  him  for 
consolation;  and  she  was  in  his  arms,  her  face  pressed 
to  his,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  began  to  cry 
quietly,  while  Stephen  hushed  her. 


256  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"My  dear  old  girl.  My  dear  old  kiddie,"  he  was  saying 
in  his  own  weary  voice,  as  though  he  too  were  miserable ; 
and  Priscilla  pressed  her  face  to  his  the  more  passion- 
ately, although  she  did  not  understand  the  words  and 
only  heard  the  murmur  of  his  voice. 


But  when,  later,  Priscilla  came  downstairs,  wan  and 
listless,  there  was  constraint  between  them.  She  averted 
her  eyes,  and  Stephen  could  not  bear  to  speak  to  a 
Priscilla  so  new,  so  frigid.  His  glance  had  no  fear :  he 
was  sternly  composed  until  she  should  be  ready  to  relax 
her  reserve.  Priscilla  had  not  forgiven,  would  not  for- 
give ;  she  did  not  even  yet  understand.  The  Stephen  who 
had  comforted  her  was  her  lover,  her  husband;  not  that 
other  Stephen,  whom  she  did  not  recognize,  who  had 
wronged  her.  To  Priscilla  that  relation  was  a  bewilder- 
ment. She  found  her  heart  softening,  swelling,  as  though 
it  must  burst ;  and  to  this  dear  Stephen  that  she  loved  she 
knew  of  no  hostility.  It  was  only  to  that  other  Stephen, 
the  collected  narrator  of  unspeakable  injuries  to  her  love, 
that  her  heart  was  forever  closed.  It  was  never  that  she 
weakly  wished  not  to  have  heard  the  truth  about  Minnie 
Bayley,  or  about  the  letters.  She  had  no  feeling  of  that 
kind.  Nor  any  feelings  at  all  about  Minnie  Bayley.  It 
was  as  though  Minnie  did  not  exist.  During  Stephen's 
explanation  she  had  had  a  hot  flush  of  vision,  had  seen  a 
something  that  was  Minnie  Bayley;  but  it  had  faded  at 
once  and  was  as  dead  as  a  used  firework.  Minnie  did  not 
again  occur  to  her.  Minnie's  part  in  the  matter  did  not 
seem  to  have  any  importance.  Nor  had  that  far  distant 
action  of  Stephen's  except  as  a  dull  horror  to  her.  It  was 
not  as  an  action  that  it  horrified  her ;  but  as  an  invasion 
of  her  own  joyous  life,  an  ugly  blot  upon  all  her  own 
generous  naivete.    But  still  uglier,  she  came  to  think,  was 


AFTERWARDS  257 

the  duplicity  which  had  touched  even  the  days  of  their 
honeymoon.  She  duly  recalled  all  her  eager  wishes  for 
some  extraordinary  culminating  confession  to  Stephen — 
a  desire  frustrated  by  the  innocent  fact  that  there  was 
nothing  to  confess  but  her  love  for  him,  which  she  had 
frankly  told  a  hundred  times.  All  that  time,  when  they 
had  seemed  beautifully  to  trust  one  another,  he  had  been 
deceiving  her.  The  thought  brought  blank  despair.  It 
was  the  one  thing  that  she  had  surely  known  would  break 
her  happiness. 

That,  however,  was  one  Stephen.  There  remained 
the  other  whose  loving  heart  she  still  believed  in.  It  was 
as  though  there  must  be  two  Stephens.  The  Stephen  she 
loved — the  Stephen  she  hated.  The  Stephen  whose  arms 
had  comforted,  the  Stephen  whose  silence  had  betrayed. 
And  which  Stephen  sat  opposite  her?  The  bad  one  or 
the  good  one?  She  dared  not  raise  her  eyes;  she  knew 
too  well  that  the  whole  Stephen  was  alert  for  her  every 
gesture,  not  watchful,  but  subtly  aware.  That  was 
where  she  was  torn  between  straining  embarrassments. 
She  loved  and  she  hated,  and  the  whole  Stephen  gravely 
knew  of  her  conflicting  distresses.  She  could  not  hide 
that  from  herself.  If  he  was  more  guilty  than  herself 
he  was  also  more  wise.  He  understood  her.  Cruelly 
and  mercifully,  shrewdly  and  wonderingly,  he  was 
regarding  her.     What  could  she  do? 

He  spoke ;  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  startled  Priscilla. 

"Would  you  rather  I  didn't  stay  at  home  to-day,  dear  ?" 
he  asked.  Ah !  they  had  been  going  for  a  walk  together. 
How  it  stabbed  her !  Yes ;  but  he  would  have  gone  with 
his  secret.  She  would  have  talked  believing  him  so 
clearly  her  own,  as  she  was  his;  and  Stephen  would  all 
the  time  have  had  his  secret.  She  bent  her  head  still 
lower  under  his  glance,  miserably. 

"I  don't  know,  Stephen,"  she  made  answer,  truthfully 
enough;  and  sharply  sighed.     "We  should  have  gone  if 


258  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

you  hadn't  told  me."  It  was  her  first  note  of  grinding 
anger — something  quite  far  from  her  thoughts. 

"But  you  see  I've  told  you,  Priscilla.  I  only  want  you 
to  decide.  I  thought  you  might  feel  you  couldn't  bear 
to  go — even  to  talk  to  me." 

"I  hate  your  pity !"  she  cried.  She  rose  from  the  table. 
"For  that's  what  it  is.  Anything's  better  than  pity!  If 
only  you  would  .  .  ."  She  stood  looking  at  the  hearth, 
her  lips  trembling,  and  Stephen  also  rose,  but  came  no 
nearer.    Then  she  turned,  and  their  eyes  met  quite  firmly. 

"It's  not  my  love  you're  doubtful  of?"  he  questioned. 

"Oh,  no."  Priscilla's  voice  quivered,  even  in  that 
assurance. 

"Or  your  own?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  Unhappiness,  she  knew, 
comes  of  imperfect  love.  Was  her  own  love  true?  Her 
thoughts  were  unsteady :  she  had  no  confidence.  Oh,  but 
Stephen  knew  she  loved  him. 

"I  don't  think  you're  afraid  of  that,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Very  afraid,"  said  Stephen.    "It's  all  I  care  about." 

"You  don't  seem  to  care,"  Priscilla  faltered  very 
slightly,  "about  my  .  .  .  my  happiness." 

"My  dear,"  answered  Stephen,  warningly,  "you're  not 
thinking  about  mine." 

It  shocked  her.  It  was  like  an  icy  blow.  It  was  a 
true  thing.  She  looked  at  him  with  horror  in  her  eyes 
at  such  a  sudden  attack.  Had  he  so  soon  begun  to  revolt 
against  her  judgment  ?  Had  she  so  soon  begun  to  judge 
him? 

"No,"  she  exclaimed.  "No  .  .  .  I'm  sorry,  Stephen." 
After  a  moment  she  continued,  with  no  irony  whatever : 
"I  know  you're  thinking  all  the  time  about  me — wanting 
me  to  see  everything  in  some  detached  way  that  would 
deaden  all  the  feeling.  But  that  only  makes  it  all  the 
harder.     You  see  ...  all  the  time  we  were  away  you 


AFTERWARDS  259 

knew.  And  you  knew  I  didn't  know.  I  don't  think  I 
envy  you  your  conscience." 

"You  needn't  envy  me  any  peace  of  mind,"  said 
Stephen  gravely.     "For  I  hadn't  any." 

She  looked  piercingly  at  him,  with  a  sort  of  dreadful 
scorn. 

"Do  you  think  you  had  any  right  to  any?"  she  asked. 
If  Stephen  was  pale,  so  was  Priscilla.  She  was  trembling 
again,  as  though  the  day  had  chilled  her.  She  stood 
forlornly  before  him,  indescribably  wretched.  Whenever 
she  spoke,  or  tried  to  speak,  it  was  as  though  her  tongue 
could  not  form  the  words,  or  her  trembling  lips  frame 
them.  "You  seemed  .  .  .  oh,  you  seemed  content 
enough.  .  .  ." 

"Seemed  .  .  .  seemed!"  cried  Stephen.  "Would  you 
believe  that  I'd  never  been  so  happy?  Why,  I'd  never 
been  happy  before.  Priscilla,  you  know  that.  No:  I 
won't  talk  in  that  way.  My  dearest,  I  wish  I  might 
explain  one  thing.  .  .  .  There's  the  danger  that  you'll 
think  me  only  callous.  I  won't  believe  that.  Will  you 
listen?"  She  inclined  her  head.  Almost,  she  made  a 
movement  towards  him,  so  embarrassed  was  she  at  their 
coldness  when  her  heart  longed  only  to  put  away  the 
dividing  barrier.  He  resumed :  "When  I  came  to 
Totteridge  I  didn't  expect  ever  to  see  you  again.  It 
seemed  impossible.  You  know  how  we  spoke.  You  see 
that  I  couldn't  have  said  anything  then.  .  .  .  Afterwards 
I  simply  wanted  to  marry  you.  Would  the  knowledge 
have  made  any  difference?  Why  shouldn't  you  have 
believed  in  me?  I  wasn't  a  criminal.  That  I'll  never 
admit.  If  I'd  ever  been  untrue  to  you — even  in  thought 
— I  should  have  felt  bound  to  tell  you ;  but  that  was  never 
the  case.  Never.  I've  never  been  untrue  to  you. 
You've  been  the  only  woman  .  .  .  Oh,  but  you  know 
it.  .  .  ." 

For  a  moment  he  paused.  She  thought  to  herself:  "I 


260  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

wasn't  untrue  to  him.  I  was  as  unhappy.  Why  should 
it  be  different  ?"     Then  Stephen  went  on : 

"We'd  been  away  a  week  before  I  knew  that  my  father 
.  .  .  knew  anything,  or  that  he'd  try  to  interfere.  When 
he  wrote — you  remember  the  letter — I  had  to  choose 
between  telling  you  that  instant  and  poisoning  our  honey- 
moon, and  leaving  the  story  until  now  or  later.  There 
was  no  question  of  my  never  telling  you.  You  know 
that.  I  didn't  choose  silence  from  cowardice  of  that  sort : 
I  have  never  been  afraid  to  tell  you " 

"No!"  Priscilla  did  not  say  the  word.  It  was  not 
uttered.    It  was  there ;  and  both  knew  it. 

"I  deliberately  wanted  you  to  feel  the  honeymoon 
perfect.  You  did  feel  it  so :  and  no  feeling  you  may 
have  now  about  my  being  silent  can  affect  that.  As  for 
me,  you  know  what  it  meant  to  me.  Besides,  my  happi- 
ness was  in  you.  I  quite  admit  that.  You  hadn't  any 
secret.  ...  I  now  have  no  secret.  This  moment,  now 
that  I  have  told  you,  is  the  first  moment  of  real  ease  I've 
had  since  the  old  man's  letter  came.  I'm  miserable. 
You'll  never  believe  I'm  as  miserable  as  you,  though  it  is 
so.  But  at  least  I'm  free  of  a  burden.  You  know 
everything:  you  don't  yet  dislike  me,  though  you  hate 
what  I've  told  you.  To  me  that's  enough.  If  you'd  felt 
loathing — repulsion — I  know  that  everything  would  have 
been  lost.  I  dreaded  that.  But  when  you  can  again 
believe  in  my  honesty " 

"How  could  I?"  cried  Priscilla,  flushing  deeply. 

"You  do  already." 

"No.  I  don't.  I  feel  cheated — tricked.  It's  horrible !" 
Vehemently  she  flung  the  words  at  him.  "How  can  you 
say  that  so  coolly!" 

"You  must  remember  I  knew  this  was  bound  tc 
happen." 

"Then  you've  calculated  it!  It's  all  foreseen!"  Pas- 
sionately   Priscilla   checked    her   wild    outburst.      "Oh, 


AFTERWARDS  261 

Stephen  .  .  .  it's  more  than  I  can  bear !"  She  feverishly 
left  the  hearthrug  and  turned  away  from  him.  "When 
I  trusted  you  so !  Can't  you  see  how  horrible  it  is — what 
a  betrayal?  I  don't  believe  you  can.  If  you  could  see, 
you  couldn't  talk  of  it  so  calmly.     You  couldn't!" 

"It's  because  I  see,  that  I'm  trying  to  be  calm.  I  knew 
I  had  to  tell  you.  I  knew  it  would  be  hateful.  I'm 
not  reallv  cool.  Surely  I  don't  look  like  anvbody 
callous !"  ' 

'Then  I  can't  understand,"  she  said  bitterly.  "I  never 
shall  understand!" 

"You  do  understand.  But  you  can't  bring  yourself 
to  admit  it.  You're  quite  wise  and  generous  enough  to 
understand.     Your  heart's  clear." 

"You're  relying  on  my  love!"  she  cried.  "To  make 
up  for  everything!" 

"Yes." 

Priscilla  looked  at  him  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
window.  He  was  very  white,  and  the  lines  upon  his  face 
were  not,  in  that  light,  very  noticeable.  But  his  eyes 
were  glowing,  and  the  weary  carriage  of  his  head  was  a 
sign  to  her  that  he  was  exhausted.  She  sighed  again,  with 
a  sharp  depth  that  shook  his  self-control.  Involuntarily 
he  exclaimed  and  came  to  her  side.  Even  so,  he  hardly 
heard  her  painful  murmur. 

"I  think  you're  asking  too  much  of  my  love.  Quite 
too  much.  I  can't  tell  you  how  bad  I  feel.  Just  for- 
saken. I'd  built  so  much  .  .  .  Oh,  Stephen !  How  can 
I  bear  it !" 

They  were  quite  close  together,  and  his  hand  touched 
her  elbow.  She  did  not  flinch,  and  he  put  his  arm  gently 
round  her.  Still  Priscilla  made  no  motion.  Her  body 
was  stiff  and  unyielding  within  his  arm. 

"You  can  bear  it  by  trusting  me,"  he  said,  very  low. 
"Only  by  trusting  me."  Abruptly  he  dropped  his  arm 
again,  though  he  remained  otherwise  in  the  same  position, 


262  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

steadily  regarding  her.     "And  you  can  trust  me  if  you 
trust  yourself.  .  .  .  That's  always  the  main  thing." 

His  eyes  were  unreadable.  Priscilla  hardly  heard  what 
he  said.  She  was  too  greatly  troubled  to  make  any 
response.  After  a  moment's  pause  he  took  up  his  papers 
again  from  the  side  table,  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  her  in  the  same  unhappy  state  of  bewilderment, 
hopeless  of  the  future,  which  seemed  wholly  dark. 


PART  THREE 

THE  STORY  OF 
THE  CHASTE  WIFE 


CHAPTER  XVI:  DREAD 


THERE  are  some  places  which  one  always  remembers 
in  sunshine.  Some  towns — for  example  the  City 
of  Glasgow — it  is  permitted  to  remember  invariably  in 
rain;  but  that  is  very  likely  an  unhappy  fact,  and  not  a 
freak  of  memory.  On  the  other  hand,  Glaswegians  may 
find  some  other  peculiarity  to  recall  joy.  They  may  think 
of  the  many  tramcars,  or  the  interminable  length  of 
Sauchiehall  Street,  or  the  shuttered  silence  of  dismal 
Sundays.  There  are  compensations  everywhere — even, 
one  must  suppose,  in  Glasgow.  At  any  rate  the  Glas- 
wegians, when  rebuked  for  their  city,  are  often  heard  to 
refer  defensively  to  some  supreme  ugliness  in  Manchester 
which  restores  their  ruffled  complacency,  and  makes  of 
Glasgow  a  comparative  Paradise.  But  there  are  other 
places — such  as  Richmond  (in  Surrey — not  the  crum- 
bling Richmond  of  the  north),  or  Brighton,  or  some 
pretty  towns  and  villages  in  the  southwest  of  England — 
which  are  never,  in  retrospect,  seen  otherwise  than  in 
sunshine.  To  Stephen  Moore  one  such  place  was  Hamp- 
stead  Heath.  It  is  open  to  anybody  to  say  that  when  it 
rained  at  Hampstead  Stephen  simply  wasn't  there,  that  he 
stayed  indoors,  or  that  he  was  at  present  no  more  than 
a  summer  visitor.  Why,  however,  should  we  rob  him  of 
his  illusion?  It  was  part  of  his  love  for  Hampstead,  the 
love  that  is  perhaps  born  in  every  Cockney. 

Hampstead  certainly  has  its  beauties  and  its  associa- 
tions. It  was  not  merely  the  home  of  Jack  Straw  or 
Dick  Turpin,  as  one  might  be  led  to  suppose  from  a 
cursory  glance  at  the  Spaniards  Road.  From  time  to 
'.ime  it  has  sheltered  many  poets  and  artists,  and  if  it 
continues  to  do  so  there  are  obvious  and  commendable 

2fi5 


2G6  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

reasons  for  the  fact  into  which  it  is  now  unnecessary 
to  inquire.  One  such  reason  is  that  it  is  the  nearest  piece 
of  really  open  land  to  the  heart  of  London.  It  is  no  more 
than  five  or  six  miles  from  the  very  centre  of  the  city,  and 
yet  it  is  a  wide  and  beautiful  heath,  unspoiled  for  all  who 
are  not  misanthropists.  And  upon  weekdays  (excepting 
Saturdays)  even  misanthropists  can  prowl  there  un- 
molested. Moreover,  apart  altogether  from  the  heath, 
there  is  in  the  suburb  of  Hampstead  proper  such  a  con- 
fusion of  small  alleys  and  winding  hilly  streets  that  the 
heart  of  man  is  charmed  within  him.  Outside  the  range 
of  Hampstead  there  are  horrible  attachments,  such  as 
South  Hampstead,  and  West  Hampstead,  called  by 
these  names,  probably,  as  Mr.  Belloc's  book  was  called 
Caliban  s  Guide  to  Letters,  "for  purposes  of  sale."  With 
these  the  lover  of  Hampstead  will  have  no  concern. 
When  he  speaks  of  Hampstead  he  means  a  small  circle 
from  the  upper  end  of  Rosslyn  Hill,  Church  Road, 
Frognal,  The  Grove,  West  Heath  Road,  "The  Bull  and 
Bush,"  "The  Spaniards,"  the  Vale  of  Health,  and  round 
again  (at  the  very  farthest)  by  Pond  Street  into  Rosslyn 
Hill.  He  means,  on  the  whole,  a  radius  of  something 
much  less  than  a  mile  turning  slowly  round,  as  on  a  pivot, 
from  the  middle  of  Heath  Street.  That,  in  spite  of  all 
house-agents  and  railway  companies  (a  romantic  brood), 
is  what  is  meant  by  Hampstead.  What  is  not  meant  by 
Hampstead  is  that  kind  of  outer  district  made  up  of 
Golders  Green  and  Fortune  Green  and  Finchley  Road 
and  Swiss  Cottage  and  Chalk  Farm  and  Gospel  Oak.  The 
large  outer  Hampstead  is  a  privileged  area;  but  it  is  not 
what  one  means  by  Hampstead.  Far  from  it.  And  when 
Stephen  thought  of  Hampstead  in  sunshine  he  had  no 
intention  of  denying  rain  to  Gospel  Oak.  He  did  not 
imagine  a  parched  Chalk  Farm.  For  all  he  cared  Swiss 
Cottage  might  be  a  swamp,  and  the  West  End  Lane  a 
flooded  area. 


DREAD  267 


It  was  thus  a  typical  sunshiny  day  upon  the  heath 
when  Stephen,  leaving  their  home,  went  out  of  doors 
for  the  sake  of  Priscilla's  relief.  The  sun  shone — not 
fiercely,  as  it  does  in  the  less  breezy  days  of  midsummer; 
but  with  a  gentle  warmth  that  charmed  the  air.  Dogs 
barked  by  the  White  Stone  Pond,  pretending  that  they 
were  at  the  seaside,  and  a  man  had  just  driven  his  horse 
into  the  pond,  so  that  its  legs  were  wetted  and  so  that  the 
red  wheels  of  his  cart  flashed  and  glittered  in  the  sun- 
shine. Very  few  people  were  out ;  but  there  were  one  or 
two  men  lounging  against  the  white  rail  that  runs  between 
the  road  and  the  steep  descent  to  that  part  of  the  heath 
which  becomes  the  Vale  of  Health.  Upon  that  day  there 
was  no  noise  from  the  Vale ;  but  of  course  it  is  on  Bank 
Holidays  that  this  is  the  very  centre  of  the  tumult.  Here 
may  be  seen  the  coco-nut  shies,  and  the  heavy  hammer, 
and  the  vigorous  dancing;  and  here  may  be  heard  the 
conflict  of  all  those  wheezy  accompaniments  to  the  so 
thrilling  roundabouts.  But  upon  this  day  there  came  no 
faintest  hint  of  the  joys  that  lay  a  month  ahead,  when, 
for  a  day,  pandemonium  should  reign.  Stephen  gave  a 
glance  among  the  trees  and  turned  away.  He  could  from 
such  a  vantage-point  see  over  the  open  land  to  Hendon 
and  beyond.  He  thought  he  could  see  the  "Welsh  Harp," 
that  famous  scene  of  revelry  celebrated  in  Mr.  Albert 
Chevalier's  song,  where  great  sheets  of  gloomy  water  are 
supposed  to  tempt  the  oarsman.  Nearer  to  him  was  the 
West  Heath,  all  curiously  seamed  in  its  bareness  by 
what  might  almost  be  cataclysmic  causes.  His  eye  ran 
over  the  scene,  but  not  with  any  freshness  of  perception. 
He  was  merely  noticing  the  familiar  points.  It  interested 
him  extremely;  he  saw  it  all,  and  it  was  mirrored  upon 
his  mind ;  but  he  did  not  feel  any  sudden  pulse  of  emotion, 
as  some  people  do  when  the  scene  is  beautiful  or  familiar. 


268  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Such  emotion  was  ruled  out  by  his  temperament  no  less 
than  by  his  preoccupation.  He  observed  intensely:  he 
recognized :  he  did  not  passionately  enjoy.  He  was 
thinking  about  Priscilla. 

iii 

As  he  walked,  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  rough  path- 
way, Stephen  became  intensely  aware  of  the  tiny  particles 
of  which  it  was  composed.  As  his  foot  touched  the  earth 
it  was  soft  to  his  tread  and,  since  the  dew  had  been  heavy, 
showed  a  light  impress.  Thousands  of  feet  had  trodden, 
and  would  tread,  over  this  spot,  each  leaving  such  a  mark 
and  obliterating  other  marks  made  earlier,  so  that  the 
surface  of  the  earth  was  continually  moulded  by  these 
obstinate  pressures.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  such  assaults,  the 
modification  over  a  large  area  was  imperceptible.  The 
process  of  recovery  was  too  incessant.  The  steps  of  man 
might  indeed  wear  the  earth  bare  of  grass,  as  they  had 
done ;  but  they  could  not  change  its  character,  or  seriously 
modify  its  contour.  This  heath  remained  as  testimony 
to  the  earth's  victory.  Was  that  true  also  of  human 
beings  in  the  mass?  He  thought  so:  he  thought  them 
at  heart  unchanged  and  unchangeable.  That  was  a  part 
of  his  outlook  upon  life.  He  was  conservative  in  his 
scepticism  of  apparent  change.  There  was  no  change, 
no  progress ;  only  there  were  the  superficial  modifications 
of  times  and  manners.  He  wanted  conditions  changed — 
economic  conditions  in  the  modern  world — but  he  had 
no  hope  of  any  radical  movement  even  there.  The  tyranny 
of  conditions,  he  thought,  was  manifold,  as  strangling 
and  ineradicable  as  the  bindweed.  Those  who  thought 
differently  from  himself  he  divided  into  classes — of 
fanatical  optimists ;  of  churchmen  engrossed  with  the 
machinery  of  their  faith ;  of  all  those  practical  men,  such 
as  soldiers,  engineers,  and  sportsmen,  who  occupy  them- 
selves seriously  with  routine  and  the  things  next  their 


DREAD  269 

hand;  of  charlatans,  such  as  all  makers  of  laws  and 
practices;  of  those  whose  lives  are  never  galled  by  the 
tyranny  of  such  practices;  and  of  those  who  endure  it 
with  such  facility  and  acceptance  that  if  it  were  removed 
they  would  collapse  from  sheer  loss  of  equilibrium. 
Those  who  ransacked  the  secrets  of  the  earth  he  admired 
for  their  devotion  and  as  adding  to  the  sum  of  human 
knowledge;  he  never  ceased  to  regard  all  efforts  after 
knowledge  as  exemplifications  of  the  highest  aim  within 
the  grasp  of  man.  That  was  the  way  in  which  his  desire 
was  to  learn,  so  that  his  knowledge  might  be  a  sort  of 
living  organism,  vitally  capable  of  sure  judgment  of  the 
subject  in  which  he  had,  by  natural  bent,  so  devotedly 
specialized.  The  search  for  knowledge,  material,  aesthetic, 
emotional,  spiritual,  was  his  religion;  the  impulses  for 
personal  or  collective  domination,  for  continual  reshuf- 
fling of  the  same  old  pack  of  cards,  for  securing  group 
adhesions  to  particular  ideas,  were  anathema  to  him. 
Stephen,  it  will  be  seen,  was  an  individualist;  but  how 
far  his  idea  of  life  was  the  result  and  how  far  it  was  the 
cause  of  his  normal  temper,  his  actions,  and  his  general 
contact  with  personal  affairs,  is  a  question  too  difficult 
to  be  settled  in  a  story  which  does  not  pretend  to  give 
a  full-length  portrait.  It  is  enough  for  us  that  his  love 
for  Priscilla  was  as  deep  and  as  rational  as  his  religion 
as  here  outlined.  It  was  a  passionate  love;  but  it  was 
not  an  irrational  love.  That  was  why,  when  he  walked 
across  the  heath  and  out  towards  the  farther  country 
upon  this  fine  summer  day,  when  the  slow,  burning  heat 
of  the  sun  was  gently  tempered  by  light  and  hesitant 
breezes,  he  did  not  altogether  lose  heart. 


IV 

Stephen  went  for  a  very  long  walk  during  the  hours 
that    followed,   turning  over   in   his   mind    many   many 


270  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

things  that  he  had  thought  forgotten  or  never  remem- 
bered. He  was  for  a  time  quite  disposed  to  argue  with 
himself,  urging  his  own  defence  and  rigorously  impeach- 
ing his  own  sincerity.  He  furthermore  visualized  Pris- 
cilla  as  she  had  been  when  he  left  the  house,  dispirited 
and  miserable;  and  be  sure  the  memory  was  the  worst 
part  of  his  own  pain.  He  went  over  the  heath,  and 
through  Finchley  to  Totteridge  and  Barnet;  and  then, 
without  plan,  and  only  because  he  had  made  the  journey 
before,  he  turned  off  to  Shenley  and  Radlett,  and  even 
beyond,  until  he  began  to  feel  tired.  The  farther  he  went 
the  more  did  the  country  reveal  its  incessant  beauties  to 
his  eyes,  mingling  with  and  unsuspectedly  sweetening  his 
thoughts.  The  roads,  the  trees,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sky, 
and  the  disentangleable  sounds — all  these  changed  the 
tenor  of  his  thoughts  and  served  for  a  time  to  relieve 
his  unhappiness  and  to  awaken  in  him  a  new  sensation 
and  a  new  possibility  of  peace.  The  walking,  although 
it  tired  him,  did  Stephen  good:  the  solitariness  enabled 
him  to  clarify  his  thoughts.  Alone  he  could  think  with- 
out the  confusion  that  arises  from  the  criss-cross  of  start- 
ing ideas ;  and  to  his  considerations  all  the  beauties  of  the 
day  blended  together  into  a  harmonious  background. 

During  the  whole  of  the  day,  when  he  was  away  from 
the  main  roads,  Stephen  saw  practically  nobody;  for  all 
were  at  their  daily  work.  The  houses  he  passed  were  all 
silent,  the  blinds  sometimes  drawn  to  exclude  the  sun.  A 
sleepy  cart  lurching  over  the  uneven  roads,  with  the 
driver  dozing  within  it,  he  occasionally  met,  and  was 
forced  to  stand  aside  while  the  great  wheels  went 
grumbling  past  him.  In  the  meadows  cows  stolidly 
munched,  whisking  their  tails  over  their  flanks  to  drive 
away  intruding  flies.  Otherwise  he  saw  nothing  but  the 
day.  .  .  . 

And  all  the  time  he  was  thinking.  ...  If  only  Pris- 
cilla  could  bring  herself  to  believe  that  she  was  everything 


DREAD  271 

to  him.  If  only  she  could  see  that  he  had  destroyed  the 
old  man's  letter  from  anger,  and  not  from  fear.  If  she 
could  believe  those  two  things  she  would  still  love  him 
as  she  had  done.  Of  what  use  were  his  assurances  if  she 
did  not  instinctively,  intuitively  believe  that  he  would  do 
nothing,  could  do  nothing,  from  motives  of  abject  secret- 
iveness  such  as  he  knew  many  people  would  acknowledge. 
Surely  she  would  believe  in  his  good  faith  ?  That  phrase 
was  the  clue  to  the  whole  situation.  His  good  faith. 
Stephen  admitted  to  himself  all  shortcomings;  but  his 
honesty  of  intention  he  would  yield  to  nobody.  If 
Priscilla  did  not  believe  in  that,  they  were  eternally 
separate.  Surely  she  believed  in  it  ?  Just  as  he  believed 
in  her.  Did  he  wholly  believe  ?  Had  he  no  doubt  ?  Not 
one :  he  believed  absolutely  in  her.  His  belief  was  un- 
shakable. .  .  . 

So  ran  his  thoughts,  wearily,  monotonously,  but  gain- 
ing steadily  in  clearness  and  in  a  sort  of  steady  simpli- 
fication which  brought  him  nearer  to  some  understanding 
of  the  vital  point  of  feeling  upon  which  Priscilla  and  he 
were  divided.  He  walked  on,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left,  stern  and  inflexible.  No  fear  was  in  his 
heart;  nor  any  pride;  but  only  the  stubbornness  of  his 
rational  spirit,  which  refused  to  admit  the  value  of 
feeling  in  moral  relations. 

Then,  when  the  afternoon  was  come  and  the  sun  was 
past  the  meridian,  glowing  in  intenser  warmth,  he  began 
his  return  journey  among  the  dusty  lanes,  and  his  limp 
grew  more  noticeable,  and  his  eyes  more  fixed.  When  he 
was  tired  Stephen  always  showed  it  by  this  same  fixity, 
which  seemed  to  enlarge  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  and  made 
shadows  come  under  his  cheekbones :  and  the  two  marks 
always  gave  an  indefinable  air  of  anxiety  to  his  expres- 
sion. His  face  became  paler  beneath  the  dark  curling 
hair  that  grew  still  so  thickly  and  offered  such  opposition 
to  the  brush.    Nevertheless,  he  sometimes  whistled  as  he 


272  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

walked,  tramping  steadily  down  the  solitary  lanes,  his 
shoulders  slightly  hunched  because  of  his  preoccupation. 
The  lanes  were  bordered  and  deeply  scented  by  banks  and 
hedges  rich  with  the  green  of  early  summer:  and  some- 
times Stephen  heard  a  magical  runnel  of  water  which 
seemed  by  its  tinkle  to  freshen  the  heavy  air  and  wash 
the  traveller's  sense  of  dustiness  away.  It  was,  in  spite 
of  June  rain,  a  very  fine  summer;  July  found  the  land 
still  unspoilt  by  the  sun,  and  there  would  presently  be 
some  more  steady  fertilizing  rain  before  the  later  heats 
browned  the  verdure  and  ripened  the  crops.  Over 
Stephen's  head  as  he  walked  was  the  clear  sky,  some- 
times entrancingly  seen  through  the  foliage  of  tall  trees ; 
under  his  feet  the  dust  rose  in  little  puffs,  slowly  scat- 
tering back  to  its  old  level  after  he  had  passed.  The  air 
was  full  of  the  subdued  buzzing  of  bees  and  the  bright 
chirping  of  finches  and  the  inexhaustible  pipe  of  the 
blackbird.  From  every  quarter  came  the  sweet  droning 
that  the  Londoner  finds  always  in  his  ears  when  he 
remembers  the  byways  outside  the  city  area.  It  was  the 
long,  the  endless  undercurrent  of  the  exquisite  day. 

Stephen  saw  and  heard  without  seeing  and  hearing,  so 
full  was  his  mind  of  its  own  insoluble  problem.  The  day 
was  not  his :  it  was  given  over  to  the  unhappy  memories 
and  forebodings  which  the  situation  had  created. 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  reached  Edgware, 
and  his  journey  thence  was  simple  enough.  A  passage 
by  tram-car  left  him  only  a  short  distance  to  walk  in  the 
dusk  which  was  now  gathering.  He  climbed  the  hill  to 
the  west  heath,  and  saw,  upon  all  the  roads  bordering 
the  heath,  pale  lights  starting  into  life  against  the  opal 
sky.  So  pale  were  they,  and  so  lingering  was  the  day- 
light, that  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  lamps  were  mere 


DREAD  273 

yellow  spots  in  a  brighter  light.  Still  the  sky  was  clear, 
beautiful  in  its  fairness.  Stephen  could  no  longer  be 
unaware  of  the  beauty  of  light  among  the  leaves,  and 
with  such  a  sky  overhead.  It  thrilled  him,  as  a  vision 
might  have  done.  But  also  it  wounded  him,  and  he  bent 
his  glance  upon  the  ground,  now  so  mysterious  in  all  the 
evening's  capricious  shadows.  He  would  not  at  first  see 
the  untroubled  loveliness  of  this  day's  closing  mood.  It 
mocked  him. 

And  as  he  went  higher  upon  the  hill,  with  every  step 
bringing  home  perceptibly  nearer,  Stephen  slackened  his 
pace,  with  a  dull  sudden  hopelessness  at  his  heart.  What 
was  he  to  find?  Priscilla  alone,  still  sad,  still  over- 
whelmed? Anything  but  composure!  he  prayed.  For 
that  would  mean  exclusion.  It  was  his  dread  that  she 
might  close  her  heart  to  him.  .  .  .  He  loved  her  so  much 
that  he  did  not  need  to  tell  himself  of  his  love :  it  was 
part  of  his  being.  Priscilla  did  not  know  more  of  his 
moods,  of  the  infinitesimal  changes  in  his  bearing,  than 
he  knew  of  hers.  He  could  think  closely  about  her  every 
variety  of  manner,  for  his  observation  was  unerringly 
woven  from  minute  to  minute,  pliant  and  sure,  not  less 
pervasive  because  it  was  made  more  acute  by  love.  He 
knew  that  she  was  wholly  true ;  as  true  as  steel,  tempered 
finely  by  her  inexpressible  love  of  virtue. 

His  good  faith!  Her  love  of  virtue!  Suddenly,  as  he 
paused  in  the  greying  light,  he  was  aware  of  this  quick 
clarification.  Those,  for  the  first  time  seen  by  him,  were 
the  principles  in  conflict.  He  clearly  saw  them,  and  was 
led  to  contrast  their  implications.  On  the  one  side  reason- 
able acknowledgment  of  imperfection  and  a  strict  sense 
of  rectitude.  On  the  other  passionate  chastity  of  deed 
and  thought,  in  no  way  self-righteous  or  exclusive,  but 
religious  in  its  intensity.  .  .  . 

How  could  he  ever  hope,  in  face  of  such  a  swift  illu- 
mination, to  approximate  the  two  outlooks,  to  make  them 


274  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

tolerant  of  each  other?  How  had  he  never  realized 
before  the  absolute  difference  in  grain?  Had  he  all  his 
life  worked  on  false  assumptions,  or  at  least  upon  an 
ignoble  ideal?  He  stopped,  aghast  at  the  revelation, 
puzzled  by  its  insistence,  trying  in  vain  to  understand  the 
causes  of  the  mortifying  sense  of  inferiority  in  ideals. 

Stephen  became  ashamed.  It  was  easier  to  admit 
shame  to  himself  at  night,  here  in  this  quiet  road,  with 
the  yellow  lights  growing  brighter  as  the  sky  darkened. 
If  Priscilla  had  been  with  him  she  too,  such  was  the 
power  of  the  evening,  which  so  greatly  had  affected  him, 
would  have  been  humbled.  Their  lives  might  from  that 
moment  have  been  even  more  truly  joined  than  before. 
With  a  fresh  sensitiveness  sprung  suddenly  into  action 
before  him,  like  a  religious  ecstasy,  Stephen  stood  quite 
still  in  the  shadow,  looking  through  the  mysterious 
gloaming  at  the  dark  trees;  and  the  eternal  beauties  of 
the  night  breeze  and  the  night  shadows  were  impressed 
upon  his  heart.  Deeply  he  sighed,  for  unhappiness  is  the 
key  to  love  as  it  is  the  key  to  beauty ;  and  when  Stephen 
moved  again  with  laggard  steps  it  was  with  the  sense 
of  immeasurable  new  experience. 

Still  he  mounted,  until  he  stood  upon  the  brow  of  the 
hill.  Here  the  silence  was  gone  and  his  new  emotion  was 
rebuffed;  for  there  was  already  the  stir  of  the  evening 
promenade  along  the  Spaniards  Road.  Many  persons, 
in  summer  frocks  and  flannel  suits,  strolled  or  lounged 
upon  the  highway  or  the  sidewalk;  and  there  was  the 
confused  sound  of  many  tongues.  With  a  dry  smile,  not 
wholly  disagreeable,  Stephen  scrutinized  the  passers,  who 
were  now  so  assiduously  engaged  in  their  wandering 
vanity  fair,  until  he  came  once  more  to  quietness  and  the 
little  cottage.  Here  they  had  thought  to  spend  so  many 
happy  days!  Were  those  days  still  to  be  spent,  or  were 
they  a  part  of  the  dream  bubble? 

There  was  a   faint  light   in  the   front  room,   which 


DREAD  275 

showed  him  that  the  gas  was  alight  but  that  it  was 
lowered.  Priscilla,  then,  was  not  in  the  room.  He  raised 
his  eyes.  Nor  in  the  bedroom  either.  A  fear  clutched 
his  heart ;  to  be  dismissed  with  a  rough  intolerance.  Such 
a  fear  was  absurd.  He  would  not  for  a  moment  harbour 
it.  No :  the  explanation  was  simple  and  conventional. 
He  opened  the  gate,  and  with  steady  steps  went  up  the 
path  to  the  door.  He  could  see  the  brass  knocker,  and 
the  brass  door-handle,  shining  brilliantly  in  the  dusk. 

There  was  a  faint  sound  at  his  feet.  Romeo  sat  by  the 
door,  pathetically  waiting  for  it  to  be  opened.  Invol- 
untarily Stephen  smiled. 

"Forgotten?"  he  said,  struck  even  with  this  incident 
and  its  possible  significance.  With  unusual  gentleness 
he  sympathetically  spoke  again.  "That's  not  like  her, 
you  know.     Is  it,  now?     Poor  old  chappie!" 

He  stooped  and  picked  Romeo  up  in  his  arms,  to 
receive  in  acknowledgment  the  little  cat's  grateful 
endearments.  Together,  and  in  silence,  they  entered 
the  house. 

From  the  dining-room  there  came  the  sound  of  voices. 
Stephen's  heart  sank  once  more.  It  chilled  him  to  think 
that  others  would  be  present  at  their  meeting,  struck, 
perhaps,  by  any  least  suggestion  of  embarrassment  upon 
either  side.  Yet  Romeo,  whom  he  had  again  set  down 
as  he  closed  the  front  door,  was  clearly  waiting  for 
admission  to  the  dining-room,  with  a  trustful  air  against 
which  Stephen  was  not  proof.  Hs  must  open  that  door, 
though  it  would  bring  them  at  once  face  to  face,  so  that 
he  would  instantly  read  her  mood  .  .  .  her  distrust. 

It  was  done.  He  was  inside  the  room,  where  were 
Priscilla  and  David  and  Hilary  Badoureau.  They  were 
talking,  and  were  interrupted  by  his  entrance.  Dusty 
and  tired  as  he  was,  Stephen  stood  awkwardly  before 
them,  stumblingly  acknowledging  their  greeting.  He 
was  dazzled  by  the  fresh  light,  and  he  could  hardly  bear 


27G  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

to  look  at  Priscilla.  He  noticed  that  her  head  was  bent. 
She  did  not  see  him.  She  was  stooping  to  speak  to 
Romeo,  who  had  gone  straight,  as  by  right,  to  her  side. 
Through  Stephen's  heart  there  was  plunged  a  stiletto  of 
fatalism.  It  was  over.  Something  was  over,  and  a 
change  was  there.  Priscilla  would  not  meet  his  glance. 
How  he  had  feared  composure!     It  was  the  worst! 

He  did  not  know  how  he  spoke,  how  he  excused 
himself;  but  without  being  aware  of  his  movements  he 
was  once  more  out  of  the  room,  and  was  upstairs,  chang- 
ing his  dusty  clothes  for  other,  clean  ones.  But  as  he 
undressed  and  dressed  again  he  was  still  conscious  of 
that  stabbing  recognition  of  doom.  Vainly  he  reassured 
himself.  It  was  too  late.  The  avoidance  came  after  his 
mood  of  humility,  of  clarification,  when  he  was  disarmed. 
He  was  disarmed,  helpless;  and  Badoureau  was  there. 
There  was  a  sinister  conjunction.  Well?  For  a  moment 
he  sat  upon  the  bed  staring  before  him.  For  the  first 
time  he  was  shaken  by  a  fierce  pang  of  passionate 
jealousy. 


CHAPTER  XVII:  DIRECTIONS 


YET  he  must  go  down  again  to  where  they  sat. 
Whatever  happened,  whatever  the  discords  and  the 
heartaches,  in  this  life  none  must  be  shown,  all  must  be 
hidden,  lest  secrets  fly  and  moral  gossip  be  nourished. 
Stephen  descended  the  stairs.  A  lethargy  was  upon  him, 
a  failure  of  energy  both  mental  and  physical.  The 
thought  of  Priscilla's  averted  glance  made  him  feel  sick. 
He  could  not  now  ascribe  to  her  the  rational  thoughts 
he  had  planned.  She  had  become  quite  incomprehen- 
sible.    Almost,  he  dreaded  to  see  her  again  so  soon. 

Once  in  the  room  his  feeling  changed  abruptly.  The 
very  need  for  behaving  normally  worked  upon  him.  He 
was  able  to  speak  as  he  usually  did,  to  listen  imperturb- 
ably  to  David's  jokes,  to  accord  a  faintly  constrained 
attentiveness  to  Hilary.  And  he  was  able  to  look  at 
Priscilla  with  an  unfaltering  eye.  How  pretty  she  was! 
She  was  a  little  flushed ;  her  eye  was  bright.  .  .  .  He 
could  see  that  she  also  was  fighting  to  behave  as  usual ; 
and  that  relieved  him.  He  knew  it  in  a  hundred  ways. 
Her  very  slightly  increased  and  quickened  movements; 
the  involuntary  swiftness  with  which  she  met  his  glance 
and  looked  away ;  some  curious  fresh  timbre  in  her  voice 
and  in  her  pretty  laughter — all  these,  so  keen  was  his 
observation,  were  the  obvious  signs  of  strain.  But  more, 
in  the  expression  of  her  mouth  and  eyes,  in  a  something 
unseizable  in  the  curve  of  her  soft  cheek,  were  to  be 
found  intimations  of  her  grief.  How  strange  it  was  that 
Stephen,  feeling  so  soft  and  uncertain  within,  should  out- 
wardly appear  so  entirely  without  qualm,  should  out- 
wardly appear  master  of  the  situation !    How  strange,  he 

277 


278  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

was  thinking,  that  these  other  men  should  fail  to  see 
what  his  knowledge  made  so  plain ! 

Half  doubtfully  he  turned  to  scrutinize  the  others. 
Hilary  sat  upon  Priscilla's  right,  looking  very  tall  and 
fair  and  handsome.  Had  he  no  inkling?  Where  a 
woman  saw  in  Hilary  those  so  admired  strengths  of  will 
and  body  and  tenacity,  Stephen,  coldly  gazing — yet  not 
so  coldly,  either — saw  self-will,  cruelty  and  a  sort  of 
obtuseness  that  goes  with  such  properties  in  the  English 
type.  He  admitted  Hilary's  beauty,  which  none  could 
deny,  and  his  extremely  pleasant  and  even  flattering 
manner;  but  he  saw  in  the  frosty  eyes  and  the  smileless 
smile  a  determination  that  was  inimical  to  himself.  The 
perception  made  his  own  scrutiny  the  more  remorseless. 
He  was  still  engaged  in  its  exercise  when  Hilary  looked 
quickly  at  him. 

For  only  a  fraction  of  time  did  that  encounter  last; 
but  Stephen  could  not  help  smiling  grimly.  To  his  sur- 
prise he  was  no  longer  at  all  frightened.  For  Hilary's 
look,  something  apart  from  his  lazy  manner,  which  is 
the  cultivated  manner  of  his  type,  was  one  of  hostile 
uncertainty.  While  Stephen  was  quietly  thinking  about 
Hilary,  with  a  concentration  into  which  he  had  been 
trained  by  long  years  of  close  reference  of  all  matters 
to  his  unhesitating  judgment,  Hilary  was  in  some  way 
puzzled  about  Stephen — was  in  some  great  perplexity 
about  his  strength,  or  his  nature.  The  understanding 
for  one  reason  lightened  Stephen's  heart.  This  man  was 
not,  it  would  seem,  quite  as  formidable  as  he  might  have 
been.  God  grant  it  might  be  so !  But  even  as  he  thought 
that,  Stephen's  eyes  glinted  hardly.  He  did  not  fail  to 
perceive  behind  Hilary's  perplexity  the  cause  from  which 
it  sprang.  It  sprang,  quite  evidently,  from  something 
outside  a  simple  interest  in  himself. 

How  he  wished  he  could  see  Priscilla's  eyes;  read 
them ;  read  her  heart !    It  came  upon  him  in  a  flash  that 


DIRECTIONS  279 

this  was  intolerable;  that  David  and  Hilary  were  irrele- 
vancies.  He  cared  for  nobody  but  Priscilla.  Priscilla 
was  his  love.  He  could  not  live  without  her.  If  her 
love  were  lost,  of  what  use  was  his  life,  of  what  use  was 
any  life?  His  will  sprang  up,  stifling  his  doubts.  If  her 
love  were  lost,  still  she  was  his  own.  In  the  last  resort 
he  would  crush  her,  force  her  to  love  him.  His  teeth 
gritted  in  a  savage  resolve,  the  bare  doggedness  of  a 
primitive  sense  of  conquest.  Stephen's  heart  beat  so 
thickly  that  he  could  breathe  only  in  short  sudden  respi- 
rations. For  a  moment,  until  the  savage  impulse  died 
down,  cruelty  was  in  his  face,  a  vengeful  strength  plain 
to  any  eye.  Priscilla  must  have  seen  his  expression.  He 
saw  her  look  round  the  circle  of  faces. 

ii 

All  this  time  David  was  carrying  on  his  usual  slow 
commentary  upon  life  and  letters.  He  was  discussing 
politics  and  currents  of  events  in  relation  to  art,  sug- 
gesting that  English  literature  immediately  before  the 
South  African  War  with  one  or  two  exceptions  had  been 
pessimistic  through  sheer  exhaustion,  and  that  since  the 
South  African  War  its  note  had  been  meliorative  rather 
than  optimistic.  He  was  proceeding  to  refer  to  the 
modern  renaissance  of  the  Italians  in  the  direction  of 
science  rather  than  in  the  arts.  His  talk  was  suggestive, 
easy,  and  humorous.  His  wary  and  whimsical  survey  of 
his  hearers  was  incessant,  for  David  was  a  talker,  and 
talkers  must  always  be  testing  their  hold  upon  an 
audience. 

"Italian  music  and  Italian  painting,"  he  was  saying, 
"are  both  about  as  bad  as  they  can  be.  The  strength 
seems  to  lie  in  science.  You  get  men  like  Marconi  who 
are  doing  really  notable  things.  And  he's  only  a  sign 
of  the  times.  But  just  compare  such  strength  with  the 
work  of  a  man  like  Puccini  ...  or  Mascagni.    Terrible, 


280  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

you  know.  And  in  another  line  d'Annunzio,  who's  a 
decadent  if  ever  there  was  one." 

He  paused,  meditatively;  and  Hilary,  who  had  been 
absorbed  in  thought,  broke  in : 

"Curious  how  a  long  suppressed  racial  aptitude  will  get 
its  way  in  the  end.  You  get  the  modern  Italian  going 
right  back  by  a  sort  of  atavism  to  the  practical  Roman 
character  .  .  ."  he  said,  in  a  large,  general,  assertive 
way. 

"Oh,  surely!"  It  was  Stephen's  voice,  marked  with 
an  unmistakable  impatience.  "Racial  aptitudes !  That's 
all  the  Gobineau  and  Max-Muller  fallacy — and  it's  the 
clear  result  of  a  linguistic  muddle.  It's  only  an  academic 
idea — there's  no  reality  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

Hilary  started,  and  flushed.  His  mouth  hardened  and 
his  expression  changed. 

"Really,"  he  murmured,  half  in  protest,  half  in  repres- 
sion. Challenge  in  any  case  would  have  been  unwelcome ; 
but  from  this  man  it  was  intolerable.  Stephen,  not 
deigning  to  look  at  his  opponent,  but  deliberately  laying 
himself  out  to  combat  an  idea  repugnant  to  himself, 
continued : 

"You'll  find  different  currents  at  all  times  in  all  nations, 
all  races ;  but  not  because  of  any  racial  strain.  The  thing 
must  be  a  matter  of  time  and  occasion  .  .  .  opportunity 
.  .  .  infectious  impulse.  Sometimes  this,  sometimes 
that.  Walter  Bagehot  says  a  rather  good  thing  about 
variations  of  that  sort.  He  puts  it  all  down  to  an 
admired  type.  Somebody  does  a  particular  thing  so  as 
to  attract  attention.     Others  follow  at  once." 

"One  fool  makes  many,"  interpolated  David,  who  was 
lazily  and  reflectively  enjoying  the  comedy;  but  uneasily 
surmising  as  to  its  deeper  causes. 

Stephen  smiled  again;  but  still  only  with  a  bitterness 
that  betrayed  him  to  Priscilla. 

"Very  likely.    You  can  see  how  it  works.    Supposing, 


DIRECTIONS  281 

for  example,  all  the  little  .  .  .  sort  of  particles  that 
gradually,  by  stages,  evolve  and  coalesce  into  a  definite 
point  in  the  progress  of  invention  produce  some  particu- 
lar thing  that  meets  the  urgent  need  of  an  age  ...  a 
convention  arises.  A  necessary  thing  has  been  done.  It 
stands  for  ever  as  a  point  in  evolution.  Everybody  feels 
it  like  a  magnet.  It  swamps  everything  for  a  time.  The 
inventor  becomes  the  most  admired  type.  The  young 
brains — imaginations — tend  inevitably  to  explore  the 
reasons ;  and  to  desire  beyond  everything  else  the  advance 
of  that  particular  study  to  a  farther  point.  It  opens  up 
innumerable  possibilities ;  it's  not  only  an  end,  but  a  start- 
ing-point for  other  ideas.  Very  well.  That  would 
explain  the  rise  of  ideas ;  and  any  such  rise  means  schools 
of  opinion,  and  a  steady  pressure  of  divergent  activities. 
Doesn't  that  seem  reasonable?" 

"And  I  suppose,"  David  said,  deliberately  withholding 
any  personal  expression  of  opinion,  "that  with  all  the 
rival  admired  types,  rival  critical  standards,  rival  fol- 
lowers ad  infinitum  .  .  .  All  the  running  baggage  of 
an  intellectual  movement  .  .  ." 

"Parasites,"  agreed  Hilary,  with  a  snap.  "There  are 
bound  to  be  quidnuncs.  You  always  find  such  people. 
Every  movement  runs  to  seed  and  produces  theorists 
and  expositors.  No  doubt  there's  a  half-truth  in  what 
Moore  says;  but  he's  misled  by  something  that's  only 
a  local  symptom.  It  doesn't  account  for  the  fact  that 
nations — races — have  their  quite  special  aptitudes.  One 
must  surely  take  a  larger  view." 

Stephen  felt  a  cold  and  wicked  glee  at  this  sign  of 
resentment  from  his  enemy.  It  cooled  his  own  ardour. 
He  hugged  his  dislike,  and  even  felt  his  mind  newly  keen 
for  any  form  which  the  inevitable  combat  might  pres- 
ently take.  At  present  there  was  no  profound  conflict 
of  idea  or  opinion;  there  was  only  personal  animosity. 
With  such  animosity  as  a  root  divergencies  of  opinion 


282  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

were  inevitable.  Each  wished  to  indicate  disagreement 
— even  contempt;  and  both  were  restrained  by  their 
company  and  the  circumstances.  Each  too,  it  may  have 
been,  was  affected  by  a  kind  of  natural  interchangeable 
disdain  for  the  other.  But  Stephen  obviously  could  not, 
as  host,  go  very  far.  He  wondered  how  much  Priscilla 
saw  as  she  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  listening  in 
silence.  However  interested  she  might  be,  Priscilla  would 
not  interpose.  She  had  learnt  the  power  of  silence  from 
her  mother,  who  rarely  disagreed  with  anybody,  but  who 
never  misrepresented  her  own  opinion.  And  so  she  did 
not  now  take  part  in  the  discussion.  But  Stephen  could 
see  her  following  it  with  a  sweet  gravity  that  became 
her. 

So  interested  had  he  now  become  in  this  scene  and  its 
possible  meanings,  that  he  quite  lost  contact  with  the 
subjects  upon  which  David  was  suavely  discoursing.  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair.  David  was  upon  his  right,  also 
leaning  back,  with  his  thin  brown  face  in  shadow,  his 
head  slightly  cocked,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ash  of 
his  cigarette,  which  he  had  just  dabbed  lightly  upon  a 
plate.  His  lips  were  thin,  and  his  mouth  not  quite  a  small 
one;  there  was,  however,  in  the  smile  which  hovered — 
no  more — upon  his  lips  something  which  to  Stephen  gave 
him  an  extraordinary  resemblance  to  Priscilla.  What  a 
clever  chap  David  was !  thought  Stephen,  without  a  pang 
of  envy.  There  was  a  confidence,  a  grace,  in  his  bearing 
that  took  the  eye,  and  a  faint  whimsical  air  in  his  speech 
that  was  altogether  pleasing.  Stephen  felt  that  he  liked 
David  more  than  he  had  guessed,  and  looked  upon  the 
thick  brown  hair,  brushed  right  back  from  the  forehead, 
with  an  affection  that  was  brotherly  where  it  was  not 
paternal  or  wondering. 

"One  wonders  what  the  end  of  it  all  will  be,"  David 
was  guessing,  as  he  dabbed  his  cigarette.  "What  the  out- 
come will  be  of  all  this  training  and  rivalry  and  exploita- 


DIRECTIONS  283 

tion  of  national  phases.  For  they  are  being  exploited, 
you  know.  Movements — d'you  see?  Now,  Stephen, 
why  shouldn't  there  be  a  book  on  Movements?  Going 
back  right  behind  the  manifestations;  finding  the  roots 
of  the  Suffrage  agitation,  and  Pan-Slavism  (perhaps 
that's  not  a  problem),  and  the  different  engineering  tradi- 
tions, and  the  Christian  faith,  and  the  Roman  church, 
and  why  young  Oxford's  becoming  Roman  Catholic 
under  the  influence  of  an  English  Catholic.  .  .  .  All 
sorts  of  things.  I  see  it  in  weekly  parts.  What  do  you 
think,  Stephen?" 

Stephen  was  not  listening  attentively;  but  he  heard, 
and  replied: 

"You  might  do  something.  Why  don't  you  do  it, 
yourself?  Call  it  'Signposts'  or  'Signs  of  the  Times,' 
'Where  are  we  going?'  Then  you  could  have  chapters 
by  specialists " 

"Oh!  No  specialists!"  said  David.  "A  single  clear 
mind  is  better.  You  get  a  man  who  has  his  own  point 
of  view.     It's  the  sort  of  thing  you  could  do." 

Stephen  started.  For  the  first  time  such  a  possibility 
entered  his  mind. 

"No,  no.  I  couldn't  do  such  a  thing,"  he  said, 
definitely. 

"On  the  contrary :  it's  a  thing  you  might  well  do.  The 
more  I  think  of  it  the  more  I  like  the  idea.  Don't  you 
think  he  could  do  it,  Priscilla?" 

Stephen  averted  his  eyes,  his  brow  furrowed.  There 
was  a  perceptible  pause.  Then,  with  an  evident  coldness 
which  cut  through  to  his  heart  and  wounded  him  past 
forgetfulness,  Priscilla  answered. 

"D'you  think  so?"  she  said.  "I  shouldn't  have  thought 
it  was  the  sort  of  thing  for  Stephen  to  do." 

It  was  her  tone  that  hurt  Stephen :  it  held  a  hostile 
indifference.  Was  he  mistaken?  Eagerly  his  eyes  sought 
hers.     If  only  Badoureau  had  not  been  there! 


284  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

""Ever  so  much  better,"  urged  David,  "than  his  old 
scheme  of  London  trampings.  That's  what  I  want  to 
get  him  out  of — the  idea  that  he's  a  hack.  Look  here, 
Stephen :  I'll  go  so  far  as  to  offer  you  the  job.  I'll  get 
my  people  to  write  to  you  about  it.  .  .  ." 

Stephen  was  seized  with  a  sudden  embittered  exulta- 
tion. His  eyes  brightened.  He  turned  to  Hilary,  who 
was  frowning  impatiently  and  looking  bored ;  and  thereby 
was  stimulated  to  reply. 

"We'll  talk  it  over,"  he  said,  with  a  supreme  defiance 
of  Priscilla.  Well,  if  she  was  to  be  hostile,  so  would  he 
be  hostile.  He  would  go  his  own  way.  It  was  his  turn 
to  take  the  lead  in  such  an  attitude.  His  mouth  was  set 
in  the  old  defiant  fashion.  He  would  not  allow  himself 
to  be  thus  publicly  humbled  by  her  repressive  tone.  "Yes, 
we'll  talk  it  over.  Come  into  the  next  room.  Shall  we 
all  go?" 

There  was  a  general  movement,  for  Priscilla  rose  as  he 
was  speaking.  As  he  held  open  the  door  she  passed 
through  without  a  word  or  glance ;  and  Stephen  paled. 

iii 

When  they  were  alone — for  Hilary  had  followed 
Priscilla — David  stopped  at  the  door. 

"I'm  really  in  earnest,"  he  said.  "Why  doesn't 
Priscilla  like  it?" 

"I  couldn't  do  it." 

"You  could.  You  shall  do  it.  Choose  a  dozen — 
twenty  subjects.  Analyse  them.  That's  what's  wanted 
— analysis.  Get  to  the  root  of  the  movements,  to  the 
ideas  behind  them.  It's  a  great  notion.  Practically  it's 
a  survey  of  current  impulses.  You've  got  the  clear  head ; 
you  can  write;  you  know  what  you  think  about  things. 
Why  not?  It's  the  very  thing.  Get  rid  of  the  idea  that 
you're  a  hack.  You're  not.  With  a  little  more  confidence 
you  could  make  a  brilliant  book." 


DIRECTIONS  285 


«T>. 


'I'm  not  a  thinker,"  urged  Stephen,  remaining  still 
with  his  lingers  pressed  upon  the  door-handle. 

"That  doesn't  matter  a  rap.  If  you  take  any  of  the 
men  who  are  talked  about  you'll  see  they're  not  sys- 
tematic thinkers.  Most  of  them  catch  up  ideas  and  give 
them  colour.  You  shall  give  them  the  severity  of  black 
and  white.  It's  individuality  that  matters,  not  system. 
That's  your  own  idea,  isn't  it?" 

Stephen  took  his  arm,  and  they  both  went  into  the 
front  room,  where  Priscilla  stood  talking  to  Hilary,  who 
had  lighted  another  cigarette.  As  they  entered  the  room 
there  came  at  the  front  door  a  postman's  knock;  and 
Stephen  retrieved  from  the  mat  a  couple  of  letters.  These 
he  had  opened  when  he  returned,  and  they  were  still  in 
his  hand.  He  spoke  quite  steadily  to  David ;  but  one  of 
the  letters  had  been  a  blow  to  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Stephen,  clearly.  "I  think  I'd  better  have 
a  shot  at  that."  Aside,  to  David,  he  said  in  a  low  tone ; 
"This  letter  says  The  Norm's  to  be  stopped — unless  they 
can  sell  it.  Of  course  that's  out  of  the  question,  as  it's 
been  left  so  late.     Pity!" 

David  whistled.  Priscilla  made  an  uncontrollable  step 
forward. 

"What  did  you  say,  Stephen?"  It  was  her  first  direct 
speech  to  him.  He  looked  down  into  her  face  with  the 
preoccupied  glance  of  one  concerned  with  other  matters 
more  important. 

"I|'s  nothing,"  he  said,  as  though  she  had  no  business 
in  what  concerned  him.  He  felt  a  curious  wonder  at 
her  faint  flush,  which  made  Priscilla  like  a  solitary  rose 
in  that  clouded  scene.  To  himself  Stephen  was  saying, 
not  despairingly,  but  with  a  sort  of  dead  certainty  of 
fatalism:  "I've  come  a  mucker!  I've  come  a  mucker! 
It's  all  gone  now.  All  I  ever  had.  .  .  ."  Quietly  he 
turned  away,  seeing  nothing  and  hearing  nothing.  If 
he  had  not  married,  if  he  had  been  still  in  Islington, 


286  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

this  would  have  been  a  blow,  but  not  a  stunning  blow. 
He  had  done  wrong,  he  felt,  and  this  was  the  conse- 
quence, showing  in  a  series  of  misfortunes.  He  had 
left  Dorothy — a  hazardous  realization  of  what  she  must 
be  feeling  now,  without  any  sense  of  usefulness,  pos- 
sessed him.  He  had  left  Roy.  He  was  breaking  Pris- 
cilla's  heart.  All  for  what?  What  was  the  impulse  that 
had  led  him  to  such  a  stage?  Was  it  love  for  Priscilla? 
A  love  that  could  bring  her  to  this  unhappiness?  He 
was  coldly  dismayed;  yet  he  was  all  the  time  conscious 
that  he  had  not  lost  his  head.  He  was  not  hoping  any- 
thing: he  was  quite  clearly  feeling  that  everything  was 
lost:  but  he  was  not  in  despair.  Was  it  that  he  was 
only  numbed?  With  curiosity  he  found  that  he  had 
begun  to  revolve  in  his  mind  some  of  the  details  of 
David's  scheme.  Thought  of  them  diverted  his  atten- 
tion from  the  more  pressing  anxieties.  These  slipped 
into  a  looming  background.  He  found  himself,  while 
the  others  talked,  planning  and  selecting  the  typical  move- 
ments of  which  he  might  be  said  to  have  any  generalized 
knowledge.  They  were  few;  but  there  were  others  in 
which  he  found  sufficient  interest  for  his  purpose.  The 
word  "direction"  was  definitely  in  his  mind.  In  what 
direction  did  events  tend?  Was  there  any  conceivable 
object  or  perceptible  end  in  all  these  tendencies  of  thought 
and  action  which  had  gained  the  weakness  of  adherents? 
When  a  tendency  became  distinguishable,  was  it  not  even 
then  dying  as  the  coral  insect  dies?  It  fascinated  him 
to  think  thus.  Whither  was  the  world,  whither  was 
England,  tending?  Humanitarianism  he  found  vaguely 
powerful,  opposing  dogma  everywhere,  and  slipping  into 
individual  justifications  of  weakness.  Wrong  sorts  of 
collectivism,  barren  sorts  of  individualism,  hypocritical 
conglomerations  of  mediocrity  assuming  the  air  of  con- 
certed strength — these  next  swam  into  his  survey.  There 
was  the  religious  tendency  away  from  thought,  and  the 


DIRECTIONS  287 

opposed  intellectualism  stiffening  into  rigidity.  There 
was  the  exaltation  of  the  more  dangerous  parochialism 
known  as  nationality,  with  its  exploitation  of  crude  com- 
mon emotions.  There  was  the  powerful  and  still  un- 
plumbed  element  of  sex-hatred — the  mystifying  complex 
that  he  could  not  pretend  to  understand.  There  were 
academic  and  reactionary  theories  of  government  con- 
tinually advancing  and  receding  under  pressure  of  the 
general  social  conflict  and  the  opportunism  of  the  parties. 
.  .  .  He  saw  no  end  to  the  subjects  from  which  a  writer 
might  choose  his  material  for  such  a  book,  providing  he 
had  the  necessary  discretion  to  prevent  his  work  from 
being  the  feeble  and  hot-headed  muddle  of  cantankerous 
opinion.  .  .  . 

Slowly  he  came  back  to  the  group  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  He  could  now  quietly  watch  Priscilla,  and 
observe  her  most  delicate  pallor.  A  shock  struck  him. 
If  she  should  be  ill!  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  wanted 
her  happiness  above  all  things ;  but  it  must  be  a  happiness 
definitely  reached  through  understanding,  and  not  a 
patched-up  happiness  obtained  by  glossing  over  the 
shock  of  his  confession.  His  sense  of  Priscilla  was  at 
this  moment  poignant.  He  watched  her  devouringly, 
with  eyes  of  passion.  What  would  be  the  outcome  of 
all  this?  And  what,  in  God's  name,  was  he  to  do?  With 
The  Norm  gone,  he  had  no  money  for  their  living.  His 
teeth  met  sharply.  With  this  unhappiness  between  them, 
what  might  not  happen?  He  became  consumed  with 
anxiety.  Poor  Priscilla !  Yet  not  poor,  for  she  had  her 
incomparable  sweetness!  As  swiftly,  his  mood  changed. 
He  must  not  pity.  He  had  wronged  her.  What  was  his 
feeling?  Was  it  love  or  hatred?  The  thought  that  he 
might  ever  hate  her  was  new  to  him.  But  when  he  saw 
Hilary  so  near  to  Priscilla,  talking  to  her  so  easily, 
while  he  perforce  must  only  witness  the  conversation,  he 
became  aware  of  the  distance  that  separated  them.     He 


288  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

was  cut  off  from  the  others,  suffering  alone.  It  did  not 
matter  how  much  he  suffered.  Nobody  cared  for  that. 
Had  he  not  suffered?  His  life  had  been  nothing  but 
suffering.  Yet  he  was  to  be  found  guilty,  and  sentenced, 
as  though  he  were  a  libertine.  .  .  . 

Bitterly  did  Stephen's  thoughts  run,  corroding  his 
love. 

iv 

When  the  others  had  gone,  Priscilla  and  he  stood  alone 
in  the  room.  It  was  horrible  to  see  her  so  constrained 
before  him !  And  while  he  thought  it  horrible,  while  he 
was  heartsick,  he  was  conscious  of  a  savage  pleasure  in 
it  also,  and  a  kind  of  indifferent  indignation.  Why 
should  she  be  immune  from  suffering?  thought  this 
malignant  part  of  him.  He  had  suffered :  why  should 
she  not  do  so?  It  was  life  they  were  in;  not  a  drawing- 
room  game.  Priscilla  must  understand  that  this  was 
reality,  not  a  charade.  Then  that  emotion  was  ousted  by 
his  deep  regret,  by  the  knowledge  that  he  deeply  loved 
her.  And  again  by  his  cool  appreciation  of  the  fact  that 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and  the 
truest, 

"Stephen,"  said  Priscilla.  "I  knew  that  letter  was 
not  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  and  came  to  him.  In  silence 
they  held  each  other  tightly,  face  to  face,  painfully  aware 
of  all  the  difference  between  them. 

"Don't  worry  about  it.  It's  The  Norm  .  .  .  stopping. 
Don't  worry  about  that,  you  know.  I've  dreaded  it  for 
weeks."  He  was  abjectly  candid.  "I  guessed  it  was 
coming." 

"My  dearest  .  .  .  and  you  said  .  .  .  You  wouldn't 
have  told  me." 

"Yes.    When  they  were  gone.    When  he  was  gone." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  Priscilla  pulled 
herself  away. 


DIRECTIONS  289 

"I  love  you  and  I  hate  you,"  she  said  in  a  strange  voice. 
"And  I  feel  indifferent  to  you."  It  was  her  confession. 
He  could  not  confess  anything :  he  did  not  know  how  to 
confess.  "But  I  pity  you  more  than  anything  else  at  all," 
she  went  on. 

"Pity!     Oh,  God  help  me,  Priscilla!" 

Stephen  was  appalled  at  her  words.  He  looked  at 
Priscilla  in  a  dreadful  frenzy.  When  upon  a  passionate 
impulse  he  would  have  taken  her  again  into  his  arms  she 
stepped  back,  away  from  him,  shaking  her  head.  So  for 
several  dead  moments,  in  which  the  clock's  steady  ticking 
cut  across  the  silence,  they  stood  looking  at  each  other, 
as  though  their  wills  were  pitted  in  conflict.  Priscilla's 
head  was  up,  her  lips  parted,  her  nostrils  pinched  as  she 
breathed  quickly  in  such  stress  of  gusty  feeling.  Then 
their  tension  relaxed,  with  still  no  word  spoken ;  and  they 
began  once  more  to  look  away,  to  look  down,  both  of 
them  chilled  with  an  awkward  shame  for  such  unwonted 
display.  .  .  .  With  a  sharp  sigh,  Stephen  knew  that 
Priscilla  was  his  no  longer.  She  did  not  trust  him.  She 
would  console  him,  be  kind  to  him ;  but  she  no  longer  had 
that  implicit  trust  in  him  which  had  made  their  love  real. 
Curiously,  she  was  now  completely  detached  from  him, 
and  he  could  no  longer  read  her  baffling  personality. 
Without  further  speech  he  watched  her  go  out  of  the 
room,  and  he  was  left  solitary. 


CHAPTER  XVIII:  THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  WAVE 


FOR  days  Stephen  went  about  his  ordinary  work 
dealing  patiently  with  everything  that  arose;  and 
all  the  time  his  heart  was  aching.  There  was  a  dull 
oppression  of  his  spirit  that  was  almost  unbearable.  He 
thought  of  Priscilla  with  a  sensation  akin  to  dread,  and 
of  the  future  with  a  clear  expectation  of  disaster.  He 
did  not  dare  to  look  forward  beyond  the  next  few  weeks. 
It  was  as  though  he  expected  to  die,  as  though  no  plans 
should  be  made  in  case  they  might  never  come  to  fruition. 
If  he  thought  of  his  work  it  was  with  the  knowledge  that 
within  a  month  he  would  be  once  more  what  he  had  been 
long  ago — a  common  hack,  striving  only  to  make  a  pound 
or  two  by  laborious  performance  of  worthless  duties.  His 
feeling  was  worse  than  one  of  abandonment,  for  in  that 
there  is  the  vicious  delight  of  surrender.  It  was  the 
death  of  hope.  It  induced  in  him  a  doggedness  that  was 
more  lonely  than  ever  before.  Painfully  he  left  the  cot- 
tage each  morning  and  worked  at  the  British  Museum: 
no  longer  were  there  any  days  at  home,  or  walks,  or 
afternoons  of  happy  leisure.  All  was  work.  Sometimes 
he  would  spend  a  day  upon  writing  an  article;  and  the 
next  day,  with  a  groaning  desperation,  he  would  destroy 
what  he  had  written.  Once  or  twice,  out  of  sheer  sad- 
ness, would  arise  mysteriously  some  writing  that  held 
a  kind  of  vehement  quality;  and  then  he  would  know 
that  the  work  was  as  good  as  he  could  do.  Odd  pieces 
of  work  found  acceptance :  he  was  still  far  from  failure. 
When  he  found  that  he  could  work,  the  work  absorbed 
him,  and  he  would  afterwards  come  forth  into  the  air  in 
a  dream  of  satisfaction.  But  on  the  whole  he  was  in 
despair. 

290 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  WAVE  291 

Stephen  would  sometimes,  during  the  meals  in  which 
they  talked  as  though  nothing  was  very  much  amiss,  look 
suddenly  up  and  catch  Priscilla's  fleeting  expression.  She 
was  trying  in  every  way  to  show  him  her  sympathy; 
she  was  never  cold  to  him,  as  he  was  to  her;  Stephen 
knew  that  she  wanted  him  to  talk  to  her,  to  tell  her  about 
his  work,  to  behave  naturally.  Her  thought  for  him  was 
incessant.  But  it  was  for  that  very  reason  all  the  less 
bearable.  The  sense  of  being  somehow  in  the  wrong 
worked  in  his  mind  so  that  he  felt  what  was  almost  a 
sensation  of  injury.  Her  kindness  was  more  paralysing 
than  reproaches  would  have  been;  for  if  she  had  been 
reproachful  he  could  have  said  to  himself  that  she  didn't 
understand  .  .  .  that  it  was  all  very  well  to  behave  like 
that.  .  .  .  He  could  have  found,  as  men  in  such  case 
always  do  find,  a  sort  of  dreary  bickering  satisfaction. 
But  he  was  denied  it.  He  had  no  grievance ;  only  the  dull 
hopelessness  of  their  estrangement.  And  all  the  time  he 
was  thinking  that  perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if 
he  had  never  written  that  article  upon  Mr.  Evandine's 
book  which  had  provoked  their  reunion.  He  traced 
everything  back  to  that — no  further.  That  was  the 
starting-point  of  their  present  discord.  He  had  then 
been  unhappy,  but  not  with  the  sense  of  having  made 
Priscilla  also  unhappy.  It  was  that  new  sense  which 
made  him  feel  criminal — the  injury  to  the  one  he  best 
loved,  who  was  in  every  way  guiltless.  He  had  known 
nothing  of  Priscilla's  feeling  for  three  years.  If  he  had 
not  gone  to  Totteridge  she  might  have  married  Hilary 
Badoureau,  might  even  now  have  been  happy  in  forget- 
ting himself.  And  he?  With  a  shrug  Stephen  recog- 
nized that  he  did  not  care  about  himself.  He  did  not 
love  himself :  it  did  not  matter  whether  he  suffered  or 
not.  What  did  it  matter?  Who  was  the  poorer  or  the 
richer  for  his  suffering?  Suppose  that  he  had  taken 
Minnie  Bayley  away  until  such  time  as  he  could  have 


292  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

married  her  and  domesticated  their  common  secret.  No : 
he  could  not  have  done  that.  Why  not?  There  again 
Stephen  struggled  at  a  personal  mystery.  It  was  incon- 
ceivable that  he  should  have  done  such  a  thing  as  long 
as  Dorothy  and  Roy  had  been  there.  Yet  for  Priscilla 
he  had  deserted  both  Dorothy  and  Roy !  And  what  had 
happened :  what  was  to  happen  to  them  ?  What  was  to 
happen  to  Priscilla  and  to  himself?  Strange  how  simple 
actions  can  affect  so  many  complex  relations!  It  made 
Stephen  feel  that  no  single  day,  no  single  moment,  stood 
apart;  since  all  were  involved  in  the  ceaseless  motion  of 
life.  He  saw  the  progress  of  life  as  resembling  the 
whirling  motes  revealed  in  a  shaft  of  sunlight.  On  and 
on,  round  and  round,  went  the  living  souls,  as  aimlessly 
as  the  gyrating  molecules.  What  did  it  matter  ?  A  few 
years  and  the  sorrow  of  this  time  would  be  forgotten; 
"men  have  died,  and  worms  have  eaten  them ;  but  not  for 
love."  And  through  all  these  bitter  thoughts  ran  the 
fear  that  extreme  poverty  was  immediately  in  store  for 
them.  How  would  that  affect  Priscilla?  There  sprang 
up  in  him  at  that  thought  a  feeling  of  desperation.  If 
that  came,  then  he  had  indeed  wholly  betrayed  her !  He 
could  not  afford,  whatever  might  happen,  to  be  poor 
again :  his  pride  would  not  bear  the  thought  that  Priscilla 
should  suffer  such  humiliation.  Therefore,  at  whatever 
cost,  he  must  set  his  teeth  and  win  through. 


11 

One  day,  when  there  had  been  a  little  silence  between 
them,  when  Stephen  was  sitting  at  breakfast  for  a 
moment  after  finishing  his  coffee,  Priscilla  impulsively 
spoke  to  him  upon  this  subject. 

"I've  been  wondering,"  she  said,  "whether  .  .  . 
Stephen,  I  hope  you're  not  having  to  worry  about  money. 
I  wish  you'd  tell  me.     I  know  what  the  stopping  of  the 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  WAVE  293 

paper  must  mean ;  but  you  haven't  said  anything.  And 
somehow  I  haven't  had  the  courage  to  ask  you.  I'm  all 
in  the  dark." 

Stephen  gave  her  a  reflective  glance;  but  his  face  did 
not  lighten. 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  he  slowly  answered.  "I'm 
trying  to  make  good  what's  been  lost.  It's  not  altogether 
easy ;  but  I  expect  it'll  be  all  right,  you  know.  We  always 
knew  there  was  an  element  of  precariousness.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  hid  that.  ..." 

Priscilla  smiled,  not  very  brightly,  and  hesitated  before 
she  spoke  again,  striving  for  lightness  of  tone. 

"You  always  proclaimed  it,"  she  said.  "I  used  to 
think  you  protested  too  much ;  though  I  know  you  were 
thinking  of  me.  This  is  all  I  mean,  dear.  When  I'm 
alone  I  wonder  to  myself  whether  I'm  not  simply  .  .  ." 
Her  voice  faltered.  For  a  moment  she  could  not  proceed. 
Then,  startlingly,  and  in  a  choking  voice,  she  said :  "You 
see,  we're  both  involved.  It  makes  me  unhappy  to  think 
that  you  may  be  trying  to  bear  the  whole  burden.  It's 
too  hard  that  you  should.  .  .  .  There's  no  need  for 
that." 

Stephen's  mouth  was  ugly  with  his  shame  and  his 
uncontrollable  defiance.  In  such  conflict  his  reply  was 
harsh. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  want.  I  can't  come 
to  you  now  and  worry  you  about  myself,  because  I  feel 
that  I  haven't  your  confidence.  But  you  seem  to  main- 
tain an  interest — a  sort  of  pity — that  I  really  find  unbear- 
able. Really  unbearable."  This  time  it  was  Stephen's 
voice  that  slightly  trembled.  To  him  it  was  like  fighting 
in  the  dark.  "If  you  want  to  know  about  the  money 
business  I  can  tell  you  exactly;  but  it  doesn't  seem  worth 
while.  It  would  only  make  me  abject  before  you.  It's 
too  much  to  ask  of  me — at  this  time.  You  know  I'm 
doing  badly.     Well,  that's  still  going  on.     It's  bound  to 


294  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

go  on.  It's  in  the  nature  of  things.  Bit  by  bit  I  seem 
to  be  losing  all  I  had.  But  we're  a  long  way  off  starva- 
tion yet;  and  if  it  weren't  for  our  other  wretchedness  I 
should  still  be  perfectly  cheerful  and  expectant.  With 
you  behind  me  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything.  But  you're 
not  there.  ..." 

"I  am  there." 

"Not  your  heart." 

"Yes,"  persisted  Priscilla.  "My  heart.  I'm  wholly 
with  you.  You've  no  right  to  say  anything  else."  He 
could  see  her  hands  trembling  as  she  folded  her 
napkin,  and  her  lovely  face  ashen,  so  strong  was  her 
emotion. 

"What's  between  us  then?"  he  urged.  "Not  only 
the  thought  of  Minnie.  I  know  it's  more  than  that. 
Something.  .  .  .  Feeling.  Somehow  I've  lost  your  con- 
fidence .  .  .  your  love.  You're  only  giving  me  some- 
thing else — your  loyalty.  You  know  I  recognize  that, 
and  your  kindness.  But  what's  the  good  of  it  in  this 
case?    The  whole  thing — the  real  thing — is  wanting." 

"Are  you  accusing  me?"  she  asked  unsteadily. 

"A  little,"  Stephen  admitted.  "A  little."  He  moved 
restlessly.  "I  feel  in  the  wrong.  I  admit  that.  I  couldn't 
deny  it.  I  haven't  denied  it.  And  I'm  not  accusing 
you  of  what  you  can't  help.  All  I  say  is,  that  you're 
trying  to  force  yourself  to  .  .  .  what  is  it?  Is  it  to 
compromise?  I  hope  that's  not  so.  Because  of  course 
that  would  be  the  worst  possible  thing.  If  you  don't 
trust  me  I  think  you  ought  at  least  to  go  the  whole  way. 
Not  be  afraid,  and  fall  back  into  a  half-truth,  which  is 
what  you're  doing." 

"It's  not  as  simple  as  that,  Stephen,"  cried  Priscilla. 
"I  must  get  up.  I  can't  keep  still.  You  know  that 
nothing  we  can  say  really  matters  now.  I  can't  help 
behaving  strangely.  I  try  not  to.  I  try  to  show  you 
that  you've  got  as  much  as  I  can  give." 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  WAVE  295 

"That's  just  what  is  the  trouble,"  he  broke  out,  also 
rising.  "Dear,  I'm  not  accusing  you  now.  I  know  just 
how  much  effort  you're  making;  but  it  makes  me  so 
miserable  to  see  you  forcing  yourself.  ...  If  you  really 
were  cruel  to  me  I  think  I  could  bear  it  better.  But  you 
see  when  you're  kind  .  .  .  with  a  constraint  ...  I 
know  so  clearly  that  there's  all  the  difference  in  the  world 
between  that  and  your  old  feeling.  And  what  makes  it 
so  ugly  is  that  I  haven't  changed — I  mean,  that  what 
I  am  now  I  was  before.  I  love  you  just  as  deeply.  I 
know  you  can't  help  it,  that  you're  feeling  outraged,  that 
you've  got  reason  to  think  much  evil  of  me.  But  that 
doesn't  make  it,  for  me,  any  more  tolerable.  Because 
I'm  all  the  time  wishing  everything  unsaid — not  to  save 
myself — you  know  that — but  to  spare  you.  That's 
priggish;  but  it's  quite  true." 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  Priscilla  swiftly.  "You  can't  tell 
me  what  I've  not  told  myself.  Oh,  if  thought  did  any 
good,  I  could  have  thought  everything  through  by  now. 
It  doesn't  do  any  good.  Nor  does  talking.  I  simply  feel 
that  I  can't  be  as  I  was  before.  It's  not  that  I'm  shocked. 
It's  something  wholly  different.  All  I  do  blame  you  for 
is  for  not  telling  me  long  ago.  That's  absolutely  the  only 
thing,  Stephen.  Apart  from  that  I  don't  feel  anything 
against  you.  And  even  there  I'm  beginning  to  feel  only 
sorry.  I  know  how  you're  suffering.  .  .  .  What  I've 
been  trying  to  do  is  somehow  to  accept  the  thing  .  .  . 
the  state  of  affairs,  and  to — not  pretend,  but  really  to  be 
as  much  your  old  Priscilla  as  I  can.  There's  everything 
except  my  own " 

"Your  own  love,"  Stephen  said.  "Yes :  I  see  it  clearly. 
Do  you  wish  we'd  never  been  married?" 

"No!" 

Stephen  turned  away,  unable  to  hide  his  relief  at  her 
declaration. 

"Then  for  God's  sake,  my  dear,  don't  try  to  be  kind 


296  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

to  me.  I  don't  want  your  kindness.  I  want  something 
quite  different.  What  you  offer  me  is  ever  so  much 
worse  than  cruelty." 

"Stephen,  I  don't  think  you  understand.  .  .  ."  She 
stopped  herself.  Irene  had  come  into  the  room  to  clear 
away  the  breakfast  things.  Stephen  looked  at  her  with 
distaste;  but  he  bowed  to  the  law  of  the  morning's  work. 
Well,  that  moment  was  gone;  and  they  had  talked  quite 
openly,  face  to  face.  He  was  no  unhappier,  at  any  rate, 
and  Priscilla  would  certainly  feel  better  for  expressing 
herself  and  clearly  saying  what  had  been  much  in  her 
mind.  He  would  go  now,  and  perhaps  he  could  work. 
But  she  checked  him.  She  could  not  let  him  go  thus, 
although  she  could  hardly  speak  steadily,  and  wanted 
only  to  cover  her  trembling  lips  so  as  to  regain  some  of 
her  self-control. 

"Are  you  beginning  that  book  for  David,  Stephen?" 

Stephen  looked  back  at  her  with  doubt. 

"I've  done  nothing  at  all  with  it,"  he  said.  "It  means 
a  lot  of  work,  and  very  little  return.  Books  don't  pay. 
It  would  take  me  six  months  at  least.  And  I  thought 
you  weren't  keen  on  it." 

"I?"  She  coloured  deeply.  "I  want  you  to  do 
it." 

Irene  was  clambering  round  the  table,  her  ears  pricked, 
her  naive  red  face  and  astonished  grey  eyes  making  her 
seem,  to  their  heightened  fancies,  a  perfect  living  sponge 
for  the  absorption  of  all  speeches.  Fortunately  she 
dropped  a  cup,  and  this  so  discomposed  her,  although 
the  cup  did  not  break,  that  she  became  too  excited  for 
any  words  to  remain  intelligible  to  her  listening  ear. 
When  she  had  removed  the  tray,  Priscilla  hastened  to 
speak  again. 

"I've  been  ashamed  ever  since  that  night,"  she  said. 
"I  was  disgusting.  I  was  so  miserable  and  so  irritable 
that  I  had  an  impulse  to  hurt  you.     I  want  you  to  write 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  WAVE  297 

the  book.  But,  Stephen,  you'll  have  to  try  to  believe  in 
my  wish  to  be  .  .  .  just  as  I  was  .  .  .  dear!" 

Stephen  shook  his  head.     His  eyes  were  quite  dead. 

"No,"  he  murmured,  very  low.  "What  I  prized  isn't 
there.  And  what  you  prized  is  gone.  It's  pretty  beastly, 
isn't  it?  ...  It  makes  me  feel  such  an  awful  cad.  .  .  ." 

Without  any  more  speech  he  went  out  of  the  room  and 
of  the  house,  and  she  saw  him  no  more  until  the  evening. 


in 

And  when  evening  came,  Sherrington  looked  in  to 
dinner. 

"It's  pretty  fair  impudence,"  he  admitted.  "But  then 
I  am  impudent.  It's  the  way  I've  got  on.  I  shall  intro- 
duce you  to  my  tailor,  Moore  :  and  get  a  commission  from 
him.  I  shall  get  you  to  insure  your  furniture  with  me. 
Must  turn  an  honest  penny  somehow.  By  the  way,  how's 
my  old  friend  the  watcher  by  the  threshold?  Seen  him 
lately?  Your  cat  ...  I  forget  his  name.  .  .  .  He's 
becoming  a  friend  of  mine ;  he  was  in  sniffing  my  roses 
yesterday,  and  he's  taken  a  fancy  to  my  writing-table. 
Walks  over  my  manuscript  and  leaves  his  muddy  foot- 
prints there.  Charming  fellow!  But  you  mustn't  think 
I'm  complaining;  because  I  shouldn't  dream  of  such  a 
thing." 

Skeffington  stroked  his  little  sandy  beard,  and  his 
bright  elusive  glance  travelled  from  one  to  the  other  in 
an  inquiry  that  was  far  from  inquisitiveness.  Stephen 
caught  the  flicker  of  Skeffington's  feminine  hand. 

"It's  a  compliment  to  you,  Mr.  Skeffington,"  Priscilla 
said.     "Romeo's  not  at  all  a  familiar  person." 

"I  quite  realize  it.  I  was  really  boasting.  I'm  a 
boastful  fellow." 

"You  always  seem  to  be  giving  yourself  away,  don't 
your" 


298  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"Sheer  morbidness,  you  know.  I'm  so  afraid  of  being 
taken  seriously  that  I  go  to  the  opposite  extreme.  I 
become  tedious.  Tediousness,  vanity,  self -exposition. 
...  By  the  way,  how's  your  brother?  I  saw  him  one 
day  recently.  He  was  full  of  a  scheme  for  Moore.  I 
was  to  work  Moore  up  to  the  scratch.  Moore,  I  hereby 
work  you  up  to  the  scratch.  Some  book.  .  .  .  He's 
very  indignant  about  some  dull  scheme  of  your  own.  .  .  ." 

"It's  remarkable!"  Stephen  exclaimed  uneasily. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  write  those  pedestrian  articles  ?  Every- 
body's against  them." 

"Because  they're  dull.  That's  what's  the  matter  with 
them.  Any  fool  with  a  paste-pot  and  long  legs  could 
write  pedestrian  articles.     Help  me,  Mrs.  Moore!" 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Priscilla,  with  one  of  her  old  quick 
glances  at  Stephen.  "I  don't  think  you're  going  the 
right  way  to  work." 

"Ought  I  to  condemn  the  scheme?     Is  he  obstinate?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  admitted  Stephen.  "And  I'm  set  on 
pedestrianism." 

"It's  not  modesty,  you  know,"  Skeffington  explained 
to  Priscilla.  "It's  pride.  He  thinks  he  can't  draw  back. 
That's  the  man  he  is.  D'you  see  it?  The  trouble  with 
Moore  is  a  kind  of  obtuse  pride.  Take  it  away,  purge 
him  of  it,  and  he'd  be  a  very  decent  fellow.  But  pride's 
a  devil." 

Priscilla  nodded — gravely.     Stephen  saw  her  nod. 

"I'm  tired  of  being  talked  about,"  he  said.  "Let's  try 
something  else.v  Are  you  working  yourself,  Skeffington? 
Or  doing  nothing?" 

"I  never  work.  I'm  lazy.  I  do  all  my  work  in  a  flurry, 
at  the  last  minute,  to  keep  a  contract  date.  And  get 
blamed  for  too  much  dignity  of  manner.     Pity  me !" 

"Intolerably  affected  ass!"  thought  Stephen.  He  did 
not  say  it;  but  the  blackness  of  his  expression  sent 
Skeffington  into  a  great  roar  of  laughter. 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  WAVE  299 

"Simple  fellow !"  he  said  at  last.  Then  he  devoted 
himself  to  Priscilla,  leaving  Stephen,  ruffled,  to  eat  his 
dinner  in  silence. 

iv 

But  what  Skeffington  had  said  about  his  pride  remained 
in  Stephen's  mind.  Was  he  so  proud?  Was  he  too 
exacting?  If  he  was  exacting,  then  so  was  Priscilla,  for 
at  this  time  surely,  thought  he,  she  was  being  quite  too 
extraordinarily  exacting,  so  that  she  left  him  no  single 
refuge  of  self-complacency.  As  he  listened  to  their  talk 
Stephen's  grim  expression  relaxed :  he  even  joined  in  it, 
for  Skeffington's  gaiety  was  wholly  infectious.  He  car- 
ried off  the  poverty  of  his  jokes  with  a  kind  of  high 
spirits  that  was  quite  three-quarters  nervous.  Skeffing- 
ton's physique  was  slight,  his  general  air  one  of  extreme 
delicacy.  Stephen  found  himself  becoming  as  indulgent 
to  this  new  friend  as  he  had  become  to  David  Evandine. 
There  was  about  Skeffington  none  of  the  lackadaisical 
calm  that  marked  David's  slow,  provoking  survey  of  all 
the  intricacies  of  the  moment.  He  was  all  the  time 
shining  and  changing  and  laughing,  restless  and  viva- 
cious. Stephen  envied  his  vivacity :  it  made  a  charm 
which  he  himself  did  not  possess.  But  he  had  a  better 
brain  than  Skeffington,,  who  was  an  artist,  and  not  a 
critic  at  all,  except  of  persons,  in  whom  by  nature  he 
was  abnormally  interested. 

Skeffington  had  been,  it  transpired,  on  the  previous 
Sunday  to  Totteridge.  He  had  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evan- 
dine  for  the  first  time,  and  had  been  fascinated  by  them. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  looking  back  at  Stephen,  and 
then  again  swiftly  at  Priscilla,  "our  good  friend 
Badoureau  was  there." 

"Really!"  Priscilla  spoke.  "That's  strange.  I 
thought  he  was  going  away." 

"Apparently  not." 


300  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"See,  weren't  we  going  to  Totteridge  last  Sunday?" 
asked  Stephen.     "We  didn't  go." 

"I  thought  Master  Badoureau — "  began  Skeffington, 
and  checked  himself  suddenly.  "He  only  stayed  a  little 
while.  What  a  jolly  little  car  he's  got!"  He  seemed  to 
be  smiling  elfishly,  as  though  a  whimsical  idea  had  struck 
him.  "Now,  of  course,"  said  he,  "that  most  delightful 
child  who's  staying  there  must  be  your  sister,  Moore." 

"Isn't  she  lovely?"  exclaimed  Priscilla.  "I'm  very 
glad  you  saw  her." 

"I  hope  you'll  ask  me  to  tea  when  she  comes  to  see 
you,"  artfully  hinted  Skeffington. 

"She  was  very  impressed  with  your  singing  the  last 
time  she  was  here,"  demurely  remarked  Priscilla.  That 
considerably  dashed  him,  for  he  sang  in  a  very  loud 
voice. 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I  was  probably  doing  my  fireplace. 
It's  such  a  help  to  sing  as  you  rake  the  cinders.  Or 
perhaps  I  was  baking.  .  .  ."  He  was  trying  to  overcome 
their  bad  impression  by  insidious  detail. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  you  were  beating  time  with  some- 
thing, Mr.  Skeffington,"  said  Priscilla.  "I  don't  think 
you  can  have  been  doing  any  really  useful  work." 

"Perhaps  not.  Perhaps  not.  Anyway,  I  hope  you 
won't  forget.  .  .  ." 

Stephen  had  by  now  quite  recovered  his  spirits;  but 
the  talk  about  Dorothy  recalled  to  his  mind  the  fact  that 
her  immediate  future  was  a  matter  for  concern.  He  fell 
into  a  brown  study ;  and  was  glad  when  Skeffington,  after 
a  good  deal  of  further  desultory  nonsense,  withdrew.  He 
was  then  alone  with  Priscilla.  She  took  his  arm  as  he 
returned  from  the  front  door. 

"I  like  Mr.  Skeffington,"  she  said. 

"I  can't  help  liking  him  too,"  remarked  Stephen. 

"Why  shouldn't  you?"  she  demanded. 

"Did  Badoureau  think  we  were  going  to  Totteridge?" 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  WAVE  301 

Priscilla  flinched  ever  so  slightly.  She  answered  quite 
frankly. 

"He  may  have  done  so.  I  don't  remember  telling  him." 
There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  she  continued. 
"He's  a  very  old  friend  of  David's,  of  course." 

They  did  not  speak  again  of  Hilary;  but  went  on 
talking  about  the  book  Stephen  was  to  write,  which 
perhaps  was  to  be  successful  and  make  a  man's  reputa- 
tion. .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIX:   TOLERANCE 


ALL  this  time  the  old  man  had  given  no  sign.  He 
had  not  written;  there  had  been  no  indication 
whatever,  beyond  his  silence,  that  he  had  received 
Stephen's  letter.  He  was  as  one  dead.  Nor  had  Roy 
repeated  his  visit  to  Hampstead.  The  old  home  in 
Slapperton  Street  kept  its  own  secret.  At  Totteridge 
Dorothy's  plan  for  the  re-exploitation  of  her  personality 
was  in  abeyance.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evandine  were  also  out- 
side the  immediate  range  of  Stephen's  knowledge.  Every 
other  thing,  besides  his  own  difficulties  and  the  secret 
trouble  of  Priscilla,  was  in  a  lull.  At  times  he  could  not 
help  feeling  that  this  seeming  lull  was  a  prelude  to  some 
larger  and  more  grievous  series  of  complications.  Of  all 
those  who  formed  his  personal  circle  David  and  Hilary 
alone  were  active — the  one  because  his  imperturbable  and 
inscrutable  behaviour  always  hid  a  ceaseless  interior 
movement  of  the  mind,  the  other  because  he  had  appar- 
ently much  leisure  and  a  natural  bias  towards  the  social 
life  of  Hampstead.  Priscilla  saw  nobody  in  those  days : 
she  was  alone.  Equally  alone  was  Stephen.  The  slow 
evolution  of  personal  interactions,  on  the  surface  so  little 
changing,  but  at  bottom  so  constantly  disintegrating  and 
re-forming  in  new  arrays,  was  for  both  of  them  at  a 
standstill.  It  was  as  though  their  little  world,  before  this 
vital  difference,  stood  aside  in  contemplation.  But,  when 
a  fortnight  had  gone  by,  the  movements  which  had 
appeared  suspended  became  once  more  clearly  to  be  seen, 
and  they  had  in  that  interval  so  definitely  progressed  as 
to  show  that  the  air  of  stillness  had  been  deceptive.  From 
that  one  moment  all  the  conflicting  impulses  and  desires 

302 


TOLERANCE  303 

crossed  and  became  again  entangled.  From  then  all  the 
interests  of  those  people  with  whom  Stephen's  life  was 
associated  began  directly  to  react  upon  him  and  upon  his 
relation  to  Priscilla,  until  that  time  when,  for  a  period, 
the  immediate  end  of  all  this  business  seemed  to  be 
reached.  In  after  life  he  was  able  to  detect — not  the 
reason,  but  at  least  the  moment  of  the  turn  in  his  affairs 
which  from  now  carried  him  forward  upon  the  crest  of 
a  wave,  and  brought  him  to  the  crisis  of  his  passionate 
adventure.  So  it  was  that  his  present  feeling  of  strange 
expectation  was  justified,  since  the  lull,  although  it  had 
no  real  existence,  but  was  merely  a  result  of  his  own 
momentary  weariness,  did  most  certainly  leave  Stephen 
at  the  mercy  of  untoward  events. 


u 

The  first  indication  of  the  new  movement  came  in  a 
curious  way.  It  came  as  it  were  casually,  when,  one 
evening,  Dorothy  appeared  at  their  front  door  with  David 
as  escort,  both  of  them  suspiciously  breathless  and  talka- 
tive. They  came  into  the  sitting-room,  where  Priscilla 
was  reading  a  novel  and  where  Stephen  was  frowning 
over  the  compression  into  five  hundred  words  of  a  review 
which  in  eight  hundred  words  was  already  packed  as 
tightly  as  he  could  for  the  moment  pack  it.  Priscilla's 
first  reflection,  after  her  quick  impulse  of  pleasure,  was 
"they've  quarrelled" ;  her  second  "she's  refused  him" ; 
her  third  "she  hasn't  let  him  speak" ;  her  fourth  "what- 
ever is  the  matter?"  She  could  tell  that  both  were  very 
excited,  and  that  neither  of  them  looked  at  the  other,  or 
directly  at  anybody  else.  Only,  they  talked.  .  .  .  She 
looked  at  Stephen,  to  find  him  apparently  puzzled  by 
Dorothy's  behaviour.  Were  they  in  love  with  one 
another?  Priscilla  could  not  be  sure.  David  never 
spoke  seriously  of  himself :  she  thought  him  secretive. 


304  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Dorothy,  unlike  some  girls,  never  talked  about  her  feel- 
ings, although  she  did  not  seem  to  put  any  check  upon 
her  tongue.  So  they  sat  there,  laughing  and  talking, 
Dorothy  quick  and  merry,  her  eyes  bright  and  her  cheeks 
flushed,  so  that  she  looked  like  the  embodiment  of  mis- 
chief; Priscilla  graver,  still  rather  pale  and  exquisitely 
fair;  Stephen  with  an  air  of  affection  overriding  his 
natural  seriousness ;  and  David's  very  thin  but  very  alert 
brown  face  alive  with  expression  while  his  eyes  brimmed 
with  an  intriguing  and  mysterious  kind  of  drunkenness. 
The  visitors  gave  no  hint  as  to  their  own  relations :  they 
simply  said,  "We've  come  to  see  you."  And  there  they 
were,  talking  like  children,  and  saying  a  great  deal  of 
nonsense  which  nobody  (not  even  themselves)  could 
understand. 

They  had  come,  it  appeared,  by  tramcar  from  Whet- 
stone to  Golders  Green;  and  had  walked  the  rest  of  the 
way.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  night,  they  said;  with  so 
many  stars;  and  there  was  such  a  bonny  moon;  and  the 
tram  conductor  had  dropped  David's  shilling,  and 
matches  innumerable  had  been  required  for  its  recovery ; 
and  the  tram  had  nearly  run  away  with  them,  through 
the  driver's  sudden  loss  of  nerve ;  and  in  fact  their  recital 
was  as  commonplace  as  anybody  could  suppose.  What, 
then,  had  given  them  this  great  air  of  marvellous  buoy- 
ancy? At  their  age,  Priscilla  supposed,  only  one  thing; 
and  then  she  chid  herself  for  being  so  stupid.  Why 
shouldn't  they  be  amused  at  their  adventures  ?  She  hoped 
they  were  not  flirting!  A  dread  of  it  ran  across  her 
mind.  Did  she  know  of  Dorothy  that  she  would  not 
behave  in  such  a  way?  A  glance  reassured  her.  She 
smiled  and  shook  her  head  once,  in  a  sort  of  bewilder- 
ment; but  somehow  they  amused  her  very  much.  They 
made  her  feel  so  old — so  married.  It  occurred  to  her  to 
think  how  pleasant  it  would  be,  when  they  had  gone,  to 
talk  to  Stephen  about  her  questions.     So  she  could  still 


TOLERANCE  305 

talk  to  him?  Of  course  she  could!  Priscilla  knew  that 
the  only  topic  upon  which  they  could  not  speak  at  ease 
was  the  topic  of  their  own  relation.  It  made  her  sigh  to 
think  of  it;  but  she  did  not  therefore  lose  her  sense  of 
quick,  amused  sympathy  for  the  happy  children  whose 
mysterious  behaviour  was  proving  so  engrossing  a 
problem  for  her  wits. 

iii 

"Biddy's  going  to  be  married !"  announced  Dorothy 
in  a  startling  pause. 

"No !"  Priscilla  was  surprised  out  of  her  benign  sense 
of  elderliness.     "How  awfully  interesting!" 

"A  man  in  Totteridge.  Mrs.  Evandine  knew  nothing 
about  it.     He's  a  very  rich  man — a  builder." 

"Builders  are  very  bad  men  as  a  rule,"  observed  David 
languidly. 

"This  one's  nice.  I've  seen  him.  But  Biddy  deserves 
somebody  nicer,  I'm  sure.  I  feel  terribly  nattered, 
because  she  told  me  herself.  She  said,  very  kindly, 
'I'm  going  to  be  married,  miss.  He's  a  builder  ...  a 
very  respectable  man.  He  employs  five  men.'  It  does 
sound  rather  good.  .  .  .  But  I  feel  it's  a  drop  for 
Biddy." 

"Dorothy  thinks  she  deserves  a  Marquis,"  David 
teased.     Priscilla  smiled  at  a  recollection. 

"I  remember  you  always  admired  Biddy,"  she  ad- 
mitted.    "She  impressed  you." 

"I  feel  she's  so  much  better  bred  than  I  am.  Except 
when  she  talks  naturally.  Do' you  notice  how  servants 
have  two  manners?  When  they're  being  'servants' 
they're  so  very  prim  and  silent  and  rustling  .  .  .  and 
when  they're  human  beings  they  talk  differently  and 
move  differently;  and  make  a  noise  and  laugh.  I  never 
thought  Biddy  could  laugh;  and  then  one  day  I  heard 


306  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

her  roaring  away  when  she  didn't  know  I  was  there. 
She's  two  persons." 

"A  double-face,"  suggested  David,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  and  smiling. 

"Oh  no,  David,"  Priscilla  interposed.  "She's  a  splen- 
did girl.     What  will  mother  do  without  her?" 

Dorothy  crossed  the  room  to  Stephen,  and  sat  beside 
him. 

"Have  you  done  anything  about  me?"  she  asked. 

"I've  got  some  particulars.  You  shall  have  them 
presently — before  you  go." 

"Is  it  very  expensive?"  They  were  speaking  about 
her  cookery  lessons.  "Talking  about  Biddy  reminded 
me.  She  wants  to  learn  cookery  too.  In  two  months ! 
She'll  have  to  cook  her  builder's  meals." 

Priscilla  was  listening.  She  looked  sharply  at  the 
unreadably  smiling  David. 

"Mr.  Skeffington's  got  some  diploma  as  a  cook,"  she 
said.  "We're  going  in  one  night  to  a  dinner  prepared 
entirely  by  himself.  But,  Dorothy,  you  surely  haven't 
anything  to  learn?" 

"Only  method."  The  words  came  abruptly  from 
Stephen.     "And  she'd    get  a  necessary  certificate." 

"Beautiful  things!"  murmured  Dorothy  in  a  sort  of 
trance.  "Beautiful  things  to  melt  in  your  mouth. 
Terribly  expensive  things  for  old  gentlemen  to  eat  at 
banquets." 

"Oh,  but  they  have  chefs!"  objected  David. 

"Now,  they  do !"  Dorothy  was  fiery  in  retort.  "Wait ! 
Years  hence  women  will  do  it  all,  and  the  dinners  will 
be  over  early.  I  shall  practise  on  David.  I  shall  bring 
him  back  things  with  a  thousand  ingredients.  And  he 
shall  eat  them  before  my  very  eyes !" 

David  groaned.  His  complacent  expression  changed 
to  one  of  utter  helplessness. 

"I  don't  know  which  to  pity  most — among  these  cooks. 


TOLERANCE  307 

You,  who  dine  with  old  Skeff;  or  Biddy's  builder;  or 
myself.  But  after  all,  you  may  escape  the  first  onset, 
while  the  builder  and  I  .  .  ." 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,"  persisted  Dorothy,  with 
the  reflective  enthusiasm  of  the  Mikado  when  he  discusses 
the  merits  of  boiling  oil  and  molten  lead,  "for  Biddy  also 
to  practise  on  David.  He  could  be  a  kind  of  unofficial 
judge,  deciding  between  us." 

"How  terrible  all  this  talk  is !"  cried  David,  for  whom 
it  had  very  real  terrors.  "Parlons  d'autres  choses!  as 
Madame  de  Sevigne  says." 

"I  was  only  joking.  .  .  .  For  one  thing,  I  shan't  be  at 
Totteridge,"  Dorothy  said  in  a  peculiar  tone.  David 
looked  straight  at  her. 

"No.  I'd  forgotten  that."  It  was  impossible  to  detect 
any  feeling  in  David's  acknowledgment. 

Priscilla  almost  stamped  in  her  interest  and  her 
bewilderment.  She  could  not  .  .  .  she  really  had  no 
wish  to  be  curious;  but  if  she  might  not  be  curious  about 
Dorothy  and  David  then  her  range  of  interests  must 
be  painfully  circumscribed.  And  so  she  was  forced  to 
admit  privately  to  herself  that  she  was  frightfully  curious. 

"You'll  be  here,"  added  Stephen,  with  Priscilla  a  kind 
of  half -beat  late. 

"Though  I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  be  at 
Totteridge,"  was  Priscilla's  murmured  supplement.  She 
and  Dorothy  exchanged  a  mutually  imploring  look.  "Has 
father  ever  finished  his  essay  on  gardens  ?  He  was  writ- 
ing it  .  .  .  while  we  were  away.  .  .  ."  In  spite  of  her 
momentary  preoccupation  with  other  things  Priscilla 
faltered  in  saying  that,  and  was  almost  manifestly  in 
distress. 

"Poor  old  man.  Poor  old  Minch.  Poor  everybody !" 
David  shed  commiseration  with  a  regal  bounty.  "Only 
execration  for  Vanamure." 

"Well,  I  feel  sorry  for  him!"  cried  Dorothy. 


308  THjl,  CHASTE  WIFE 

"Do  tell  us  what's  happened !" 

"Well,  father's  hair  is  bleached;  Minch  is  bent  double, 
and  crawleth  upon  all-fours;  and  Vanamure  purrs  over 
the  whole  farrago  of  nonsense.  He's  as  ignorant  as  a 
hen.  I  said  to  father:  'It  won't  do.'  I  had  to  say  it, 
to  protect  him !" 

"Poor  old  chap !"  They  all  three  shook  wiseacre 
heads,  Stephen  alone  thoughtfully  considering  the  un- 
wisdom of  Mr.  Evandine  from  a  technical  point  of  view. 
To  Stephen  the  idea  of  writing  about  something  one  had 
made  no  profound  effort  to  understand  was  as  condemn- 
able  as  the  adulteration  of  food-stuffs. 

"Why  did  he  do  it  ?"  was  the  question  at  last  produced 
from  his  gloomy  thoughts;  and  as  the  subject  was  by 
then  fading  gradually  from  their  attention  all  laughed  at 
his  concern. 

"It  might  be  vanity — or  innocence — or  the  lures  of 
that  serpent  Vanamure,"  suggested  David. 

"Why  does  your  father  have  anything  to  do  with 
Vanamure?" 

David  looked  smilingly  at  Priscilla.  It  was  a  leading 
question.     It  raised  vast  issues. 

"Well,  Stephen,"  he  said  candidly,  "the  obvious 
answer,  and  the  true  one,  you  wouldn't  understand. 
You're  not  old  enough.  And  it's  not  in  your  Protestant- 
moral  character  to  appreciate  it.  And  Priscilla  wouldn't 
like  me  to  tell  you.  But  the  truth  is,  he's  rather  disposed 
to  bask  in  the  sunny  warmth  of  Vanamure." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Stephen.  Priscilla  showed  her 
disgust  by  going  out  of  the  room  with  Dorothy. 


IV 

As  the  door  closed  quietly  but  decidedly  behind  the 
two  girls,  David  resumed  his  explanation. 

"Richard  le  Gallienne  once  wrote  an  article  called  'The 


TOLERANCE  309 

Desire  of  the  Candle  for  the  Moth.'  It's  a  very  inter- 
esting thing  to  observe  at  what  point  men  feel  the  need 
of  inferiors.  It's  no  doubt  when  they've  reached  the  end 
of  their  intellectual  enterprise — when  they're  not  able  to 
learn  any  more.  A  remarkable  field  for  the  student  of 
intellectual  pathology." 

"Do  you  mean  there's  a  sudden  fall  in  their  sense  of 
values?"  asked  Stephen,  interested. 

'"Oh,  there  are  always  fluctuations,  aren't  there?  But 
while  a  middle-aged  man  wants  a  cordial  atmosphere  of 
sympathy  a  young  man  always  wants  to  know  men  who 
stimulate  his  curiosity." 

"That's  not  universal,"  warned  Stephen.  "Only  some, 
remarkable,  young  men." 

"Of  course  I'm  assuming  some  calibre.  I  think  the 
old  boy's  got  that — or  had  it.  He's  a  very  candid  chap. 
But  men  of  his  own  type  get  stuck  in  one  place,  as  he's 
done;  and  they  never  meet,  except  at  the  Literary  Fund 
dinner,  or  a  banquet  to  some  second-rate  foreign  person ; 
so  they're  all  living  on  memory  and  old  association.  They 
tend  inevitably  to  collect  satellites." 

Such  talk  made  Stephen  more  and  more  gloomy. 

"If  that's  so,  it's  very  bad,"  he  observed  with  great 
rectitude.     David  shrugged. 

"Is  it?"  he  asked.  "Do  you  suppose  a  man's  always 
to  go  out  trailing  clouds  of  glory.  It's  not  the  modern 
literary  life,  my  lad." 

"I  couldn't  bear  it !"  cried  Stephen,  with  a  magnificent 
egoism.  "It's  so  humiliating.  To  have  adherents  and 
admirers.     It's  loathly." 

"What  do  you  want  then?  Don't  you  want  people  to 
accept  your  ideas,  your  estimates  ?  To  rally  round  you  ? 
Don't  you  imagine  it  would  be  rather  fine  to  be  recog- 
nized and  admired?" 

"Not  at  all.  No.  I've  never  thought  of  it.  I  should 
hate  it." 


310  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"What  then?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  want  people  to  think  right  for  the 
right  reasons — not  because  I  say  a  thing,  or  because  they 
like  me." 

"That's  like  Priscilla's  virtue  for  virtue's  sake.  You 
can  see  it's  all  right  for  her,  because  she's  happy;  but, 
my  dear  chap,  think  how  inhuman  it  is !" 

Stephen  sighed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"Is  it?  Then  what  is  one  to  do?  I  should  like  above 
all  things  to  know  wise  people — people  who  would  be  so 
amazingly  instructed  in  all  varieties  of  truth  that  the 
whole  of  life  was  mapped  before  them.  There  aren't 
such  men.  I  don't  know  any  who  aren't  working  some- 
how to  some  mysterious  white  spot  in  the  future — some 
luminous  spark  that  they  couldn't  describe.  But  a  jour- 
ney done,  a  falling-back  on  lesser  aims,  I  simply  can't 
understand.  Why  can't  men  go  on  pegging  away  all 
their  lives,  sustained  by  that  one  unrealizable  notion  of 
the  white  spot?" 

"Because  they're  human  beings.  That's  the  only 
answer."  David  seemed  rather  ruffled.  He  lighted  a 
cigarette,  not  as  though  with  any  deliberate  intention, 
but  as  if  the  action  were  thoughtless.  "I  mean,  you 
can't  expect  human  vitality  to  go  beyond  a  certain  point 
of  endurance.  There's  a  strain-point — even  a  breaking- 
point.  Take  something  apart  from  intellect.  Take  some 
normal  affair.     Marriage,  for  instance." 

"You  think  that's  a  compromise?" 

"I  think  it  entails  compromise.  Call  it  adjustment. 
It's  not  necessarily  compromise  in  the  sense  of  any 
sacrifice  of  principle.  Losses,  gains;  it's  comparable 
with  your  relation  to  society :  you  don't  go  about  scream- 
ing or  naked." 

"I  don't  want  to." 

"But  you  wouldn't  like  anybody  else  to  do  it.  It 
would  interfere  with  you.     You  couldn't  bear  to  have 


TOLERANCE  311 

your  liberty  curtailed  by  some  outrageous  eccentric. 
That's  what  society  does  for  you.  Society  says,  such 
things,  though  pleasing  to  the  maniac,  are  displeasing  to 
the  majority.  Either  the  maniac  goes  of  his  own  free 
will  to  some  colony  of  like  persons,  or,  if  he  stays  with 
us,  he  recognizes  our  sentiments  and  conforms  to  our 
practices.  So  they  either  shut  him  up  or  ostracize 
him." 

"Ha,"  grumbled  Stephen.     "I  wouldn't." 

"But,  my  dear  chap,  that's  nonsense !  Directly  he  did 
it  in  your  house  you'd  say,  T  can't  stand  that.  I  can't 
work.  He  must  go!'  Now,  wouldn't  you?"  David 
laughed  at  his  own  mimicry. 

"You're  getting  off  the  point,"  advised  Stephen,  out- 
debated  by  a  red  herring.  "When  I  say  'no  compro- 
mise' I  expect  I'm  being  unsophisticated — or  is  it 
sophisticated?  Don't  you  recognize  the  power  of  recti- 
tude at  all  ?  I  mean,  not  a  mere  priggishness,  but  a  love 
of  doing  right — not  that  good  may  follow,  but  that  the 
right  thing  is  the  thing  that  most  attracts  you.  You 
don't,  surely,  take  refuge  in  a  mere  cynicism?" 

"Well,  at  what  point  does  tolerance  become  cyni- 
cism?" 

"I  should  say,  at  the  point  where  it  loses  sight  of  one's 
own  ideal.  When  all  ideals  are  equally  indifferent.  Good 
gracious,  David,  tolerance  is  only  a  word.  It's  never 
a  fact.     Who's  tolerant?" 

"You  are,  on  the  whole." 

"Never.     I  savagely  detest  .  .  ." 

"Priscilla  .  .  .  my  mother  .  .  .  Dorothy.  Even  I 
myself.  .  .  ." 

Stephen  was  silent  for  a  moment.  When  he  spoke  again 
he  was  very  quiet. 

"You're  not,"  he  said.     "Dorothy's  not." 

"Then  we're  a  pair.    I  say,  she's  going  to  marry  me." 

"I  thought  so.     I'm  very  glad  indeed.     Your  mother 


312  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

certainly  is  very  good.  She's  splendid.  .  .  .  But  as  for 
Priscilla  .  .  ." 

The  girls  came  breathlessly  back  into  the  room. 

"You're  in  time,"  David  just  mentioned. 

"I  heard  my  name." 

"It's  a  question  of  your  tolerance,"  explained  David. 
Priscilla  started,  and  seemed  as  though  she  were  trans- 
fixed. Dorothy,  with  a  flushed  face  and  slightly  trem- 
bling lips,  looked  for  one  instant  with  a  bold  pride  across 
the  room  to  David.  Stephen  looked  neither  up  nor  down ; 
but  he  hesitated  a  little. 

"Priscilla  isn't  tolerant,"  he  said.  "She's  generous; 
but  she  isn't  tolerant.  She  feels  too  intensely  to  be 
tolerant.     She  can't  trust  her  judgment." 

The  lovers,  obsessed  by  their  own  thrilling  happiness, 
heard  nothing.  Stephen  might  just  as  well  not  have 
spoken,  for  all  the  attention  they  paid  to  his  words. 
They  mechanically  made  ready  to  depart.  Only  Priscilla 
heard. 


CHAPTER  XX:  ROY  IN  TROUBLE 


ONE  morning  there  came  a  letter  from  the  old  man. 
Priscilla  saw  the  shiny  cheap  envelope  lying  upon 
the  mat,  and  by  instinct  lifted  it  up  by  a  single  corner.  It 
was  not  a  clean  envelope;  the  edges  were  slightly  yel- 
lowed as  with  age  or  preservation;  and  the  old  man's 
flowing,  half -tremulous,  unmistakable  handwriting  was 
revealed.  Still  holding  the  envelope  by  the  corner  Pris- 
cilla went  back  into  the  room  where  Stephen  was  eating 
his  simple  breakfast.  She  did  not  want  to  give  him  the 
letter :  it  was  hateful  to  her :  yet  she  knew  that  he  must 
see  it  and  must  read  it.  Across  her  mind  flashed  the 
thought  that  there  was  now  nothing  in  the  world  that 
the  old  man  could  write  which  Stephen  could  wish  her 
not  to  know.  That  impulsive  thought  deepened.  She 
felt  that  the  letter  had  perhaps  some  significance,  that  as 
the  old  man  had  been  the  occasion  of  the  partial  estrange- 
ment of  which  she  and  Stephen  alike  were  heartily  tired, 
so  he  might  possibly  have  something  to  say  which  would 
make  their  future  relation  easier. 

With  a  sinking  heart  she  handed  the  envelope  to 
Stephen,  and  he,  with  an  expression  of  almost  equal 
trouble,  opened  it.  Priscilla  quietly  resumed  her  seat 
and  pretended  to  take  no  notice  of  the  letter.  Then,  with 
a  gesture  that  made  her  heart  seem  for  an  instant  to  stop 
beating,  Stephen  handed  it  across  the  table.  Their  eyes 
met.  With  a  rising  colour  Priscilla  turned  to  the  letter, 
conscious  as  she  did  so  of  a  curious  shudder  at  contact 
with  paper  so  subtly  unclean. 

"My  dear  Stephen,"  said  the  old  man, — "I  write  in 
the  utmost  haste  and  with  all  conceivable  rapidity  to 
apprise  you  of  events  of  the  gravest  moment  which  are 

313 


314  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

at  this  time  befalling  the  remainder  and  I  regret  to  say 
the  apparently  to  you  neglible  remainder  of  your  family. 
Not  for  myself  do  I  upon  this  occasion  plead  with  you 
for  assistance.  Far  from  that.  It  is  for  him  alone — in 
danger,  through  his  too  considerate  heart,  beset  upon 
every  hand  by  spies,  a  pardonable  weakness,  and  in  fact 
the  danger  of  irremediable  disgrace.  Were  I  able  to  rise 
from  my  bed  I  would  even  old  as  I  am,  even  ignored  and 
worthless  as  I  am,  come  to  you  upon  my  knees  to  save 
this  unfortunate,  this  misguided  and  stricken  boy  from 
the  dire  and  dreadful  consequences  of  his  rash  act.  Come, 
Stephen,  I  implore  you,  without  delay;  for  as  I  have 
explained  a  few  moments  may  make  all  the  difference. 
Come,  if  you  would  relieve  the  paternal  heart,  stricken 
but  indomitable,  at  this  last,  this  painful  and  resounding 
backhanded  blow  from  the  hand  of  Fate.  Your  father, 
J.  M." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  her  growing  bewilderment  Pris- 
cilla  observed  that  Stephen  was  hurrying  to  finish  his 
breakfast.  She  read  again  the  puzzling  words,  and 
found  in  them  no  enlightenment. 

"Surely  he's  left  something  out,"  she  murmured  at 
last. 

"Roy's  evidently  in  trouble.  .  .  .  He's  excited,  and 
he's  forgotten  that  I  don't  know  what  it  is  that's  hap- 
pened. Tautologists  always  leave  out  the  essential  thing. 
I  shall  go  down  there  at  once." 

"To  Slapperton  Street?" 

"It  looks  as  though  there's  been  some  accident," 
Stephen  said,  putting  his  cup  hastily  down.  "Or  Roy's 
done  something,  or  been  accused  of  doing  something." 
He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  miserable  grimness.  "I  dare  say 
the  old  man's  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"He's  ill,  Stephen  .  .  .  the  old  man."  Priscilla's 
quick  sympathy  rose  in  defence  of  the  weak. 

"Ill !"    Stephen's  inflexion  was  a  significant  one.   "The 


ROY  IN  TROUBLE  315 

old  man  always  takes  to  his  bed  when  anything  uncom- 
fortable happens.  I'm  not  simply  speaking  cruelly :  it's 
a  fact.  But  I  must  go  at  once.  That  poor  kid  may  be 
in  a  thorough  fix.  By  the  way,  if  Dorothy  comes,  don't 
mention  it.  She'd  be  alarmed,  and  probably  go  rushing 
down  there." 

He  was  gone,  leaving  the  letter  still  upon  the  table  in 
front  of  Priscilla. 

ii 

The  morning  was  cloudy,  and  there  had  already  been 
some  rain,  which  was  drying  away  from  the  centres  of 
the  paving-stones.  The  atmosphere  was  both  hot  and 
moist,  so  that  Stephen  felt  the  perspiration  upon  his  face 
as  he  hurried  to  the  Tube  railway  station.  He  was  in 
that  mood  when  everything  seems  to  be  an  obstruction 
or  a  cause  of  delay;  and  he  suffered  accordingly  from  a 
crowd  at  the  ticket  office;  a  dilatory  liftman;  a  slow  and 
jerky  journey  to  the  centre  of  the  earth;  a  missed  train; 
and  presently  from  the  inpouring  of  huge  numbers  of 
girls  and  women  on  their  way  to  offices  in  the  City  or 
the  West  End.  He  was  alarmed  at  the  hint  contained 
in  the  old  man's  letter,  and  irritated  at  the  manner  in 
which  the  hint  had  been  conveyed.  But  he  also  tormented 
himself  with  the  thought  that  if  he  had  been  standing  by 
Roy  as  he  ought  to  have  done  any  trouble  such  as  the 
one  he  feared  would  have  been  averted.  Why  was  it 
that  he  had  done  nothing?  To  plead  that  he  was  busy, 
or  worried,  or  careless,  was  not  in  his  nature:  he  could 
not  offer  any  excuse ;  he  could  only  arraign  himself 
and  the  old  man.  This,  in  both  cases,  he  did  very 
heartily. 

So  the  journey  passed,  until  he  reached  Euston  and 
turned  eastwards  by  omnibus,  growing  each  moment 
more  convinced  of  his  own  shortcoming  and  that  of  the 
old  man.     It  never  occurred  to  him  to  blame  Roy.     Roy, 


316  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

he  felt,  was  a  sort  of  joint  product  of  the  old  man  and 
himself.  He  had  never  had  a  chance,  owing  to  the  rivalry 
between  his  elders.  Very  well.  If  Roy  was  in  a  scrape, 
as  it  seemed,  the  time  had  come  to  take  a  firm  line  and 
to  insist  that  henceforward  Roy  should  live  under  Pris- 
cilla's  eye.  For  himself  Stephen  thought  nothing:  his 
responsibility  was  an  accepted  thing.  What  was  also 
clear  was  that  the  old  man  must  be  finally  dealt  with  on 
this  point  also.  The  old  man,  like  a  bad  husbandman, 
must  be  punished  by  the  withdrawal  of  his  fallow  lands. 
Roy  must  be  taken  away  from  him.  Angrily,  coldly, 
grimly,  Stephen  decided  that  upon  his  journey.  The 
determination  expelled  everything  else  from  his  thoughts. 
The  time  had  come.  The  old  man's  hour  had  struck. 
Therein  Stephen  thought  truer  than  he  knew. 

iii 

In  the  watery  sunlight  of  this  morning,  while  the  sun 
was  burning  away  the  mists  which  had  arisen  from  the 
summer  rain,  and  was  preparing  an  oppressive,  windless 
midday,  Pentonville  Road  and  Upper  Street  were  alike 
vile  to  the  human  eye.  Dirt  seemed  ingrained  in  the 
shabby  buildings;  the  hurrying  people  and  the  noisy 
vehicles,  so  crowded  upon  the  roadway,  deepened 
Stephen's  sense  of  dismay.  Carts  loaded  with  boxes 
and  bales  and  cases  trundled  before  the  vehemently 
gonging  electric  tramcars;  red  huge  swaying  motor- 
omnibuses  lurched  and  roared  among  the  traffic;  the  air 
was  full  of  grinding  din.  At  "The  Angel,"  a  public- 
house  which  gives  its  name  to  the  point  of  junction  of 
about  seven  busy  and  traffic-laden  thoroughfares,  there 
was  a  notable  congestion  of  vehicles.  Upon  this  spot 
were  discharged  the  grimy  affairs  of  Pentonville  Road 
and  Saint  John  Street  Road,  of  City  Road  and  Goswell 
Road,  of  Essex  Road  and  Upper  Street  and  Liverpool 
Road.     Wherever  he  looked  Stephen  saw  the  buildings 


ROY  IN  TROUBLE  317 

which  had  been  familiar  to  him  all  his  life.  Down  there 
to  the  right  as  he  reached  the  top  of  Pentonviile  Road 
was  Rosebery  Avenue,  the  "opening"  of  which  by  the 
earl  after  whom  it  had  been  named  he  remembered  wit- 
nessing as  a  boy :  before  him  was  a  music-hall  in  which, 
when  it  was  the  Grand  Theatre,  he  had  taken  Dorothy 
to  see  their  first  pantomime.  As  he  hurried  along  the 
Upper  Street  he  came  to  the  Agricultural  Hall,  familiar 
to  him  as  the  home  of  innumerable  tournaments  and 
exhibitions  and  cycle-shows,  with  a  smaller  hall  behind 
it  where  he  had  sometimes  watched  the  ancient  Mohawk 
Minstrels.  He  could  remember  hearing  them  sing 
"Clementine"  and  a  hundred  other  songs  of  an  imme- 
morial character  on  very  rare  evenings  when  he  had 
been  able  to  indulge  himself  with  what  he  called  "an 
extravagance."  There,  too,  was  Collins's  Music  Hall, 
which  he  had  never  entered;  and  upon  his  left  lay  all 
this  long  hideous  boring  succession  of  stale  shops,  now 
so  reduced  in  the  world.  He  could  remember  walking 
stolidly  along  this  wide  pavement  looking  into  those 
windows  at  the  waxen  little  boys  who  displayed  stiffly 
and  with  an  altogether  inhuman  passivity  the  uncomfort- 
able virtues  of  some  suit  of  clothes  beyond  the  means  of 
their  observer,  who  went  for  years  in  shabby  clothes  that 
he  kept  whole  only  by  assiduous  and  strictly  private 
repairs  of  his  own.  Every  inch  of  the  way  made  him 
surfer  once  more  the  old  feeling  of  being  crushed,  the 
defiant  hatred  of  poverty,  the  bitter  dread  of  the  triumph 
of  unkindness.  To  him  as  he  walked,  thinking  not  of 
himself  but  of  Roy,  it  seemed  that  any  misdemeanour 
might  be  forgiven  a  rebellious  dweller  among  such  over- 
whelming dreariness.  He  did  not  once  think  of  himself : 
he  was  absorbed  in  recollection  of  old  sensations,  re- 
imagining  the  past  with  such  vividness  that  he  lived  it 
throi  in.     And  he  thought  with  comprehension  of 

Roy,    weak,    untrained,    without    guidance,    under    the 


318  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

influence  of  the  old  man  and  the  old  man  only.    Bitterly- 
then  did  he  again  accuse  himself. 

iv 

So  he  came  to  the  familiar  turning  wherein  lay  that 
tall  house  among  its  many  fellows,  distinguished  from 
them  only  by  the  number  upon  the  door,  which,  according 
to  Dorothy's  rueful  irony,  had  served  merely  as  a  warn- 
ing to  the  postman — like  the  leper's  bell.  Here  Stephen 
had  to  knock,  to  receive  the  familiar  odours  of  the  base- 
ment, to  mount  the  stairs.  ...  In  the  sitting-room  little 
was  changed :  only  the  place  was  untidy  and  dirty.  Well, 
who  was  to  blame  for  that?  Blame  .  .  .  blame  .  .  . 
blame  .  .  .  the  thought  ran  in  Stephen's  mind.  If  one 
blamed  one  could  only  bring  the  accusation  finally  against 
oneself.  Dorothy  would  have  blamed  the  old  man. 
Stephen,  with  a  morbid  sense  of  responsibility,  felt  the 
fault  to  be  his  own.  In  the  next  room  he  found  Roy, 
very  white,  newly  shaved  and  very  carefully  dressed, 
standing  listlessly  by  the  window.  At  Stephen's  entrance 
Roy  started,  turned  quickly,  and  to  Stephen's  horror, 
flinched  before  him,  as  though  his  impulse  had  been  to 
escape. 

"Hallo,  Roy :  where's  the  old  man  ?" 

Roy  could  not  speak.  He  swallowed  once  or  twice, 
and  his  lips  moved :  then  he  darted  forward  and  caught 
at  Stephen's  hand.     Gaspingly  he  said : 

"I've  come  a  mucker,  Steve.   I've  come  a  mucker.  .  .  ." 

No  recollection  of  the  phrase  reminded  Stephen  of  his 
own  moment  of  despair  at  the  stoppage  of  The  Norm. 
The  word,  ugly  as  it  was,  was  too  much  a  part  of  their 
ancient,  and  upon  his  side  discarded,  vocabulary  to  arrest 
his  attention;  but  he  was  quick  to  respond  reassuringly, 
for  such  an  appeal  instantly  produced  all  the  kindness 
of  his  nature. 

"We'll  get  you  out  of  it,  old  chap.     So  long  as  you 


ROY  IN  TROUBLE  319 

let  me  know  the  whole  of  it.  Tell  me."  Stephen's  eye 
had  a  new  light  at  the  sense  of  Roy's  willingness  to 
confide  in  him.  To  find  Roy  with  his  naturally  stubborn 
vanity  in  abeyance  was  to  be  enabled  to  meet  the  real 
difficulty  with  his  hands  free.  A  sullen  Roy,  from  whom 
the  details  must  laboriously  be  obtained,  would  have 
made  long  and  dexterous  negotiation  with  his  vanity  the 
first  wearisome  preliminary  to  any  kind  of  remedial  step ; 
but  this  wholly  candid  boyish  turn  of  readiness  was  the 
way  to  a  rapid  solution.  "What's  it  all  about?  A 
quarrel,  or  something  more  troublesome?" 

There  was  a  dead  stoppage.  Roy  turned  away  to  the 
window.  Then,  as  if  with  an  effort,  he  faced  round 
again.  Stephen's  keen  watchfulness  and  keener  judg- 
ment were  busy,  guessing,  observing,  calculating. 

"It's  so  hard  to  tell  .  .  ."  Roy  began;  and  his  eyes 
looked  everywhere  but  at  Stephen's  face.  His  orange- 
tipped  fingers  were  twisting  as  he  stood  there  like  a 
culprit  before  his  brother.  Once  or  twice  a  different 
feeling  seemed  to  come  over  him,  for  he  made  an  uncon- 
trollable little  vain  grimace  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  a  way  horribly  reminiscent  to  the  observer  of  the 
old  man.  Stephen  waited  for  quite  a  moment  in  the 
silence,  and  Roy  grew  a  fiery  red  in  his  increasing 
embarrassment. 

"Have  a  shot  at  it.  You  know  I'll  help  you.  But 
I  can't  if  I  don't  know  what  it  is  you've  been  doing." 

"It's  so  awkward  ...  I  feel  you  won't  understand. 
.  .  .  But  it's  simply  hellish !"  said  Roy,  in  a  voice  that 
was  unlike  his  own,  almost  complaining,  but  apologetic 
and  shamefaced  as  well.  "You  wouldn't  understand  the 
temptation." 

"Shouldn't  I  ?"  Stephen  asked  dryly.  "What  sort  of 
thing?" 

"Beastly.     Dishonest."     It  was  blurted  out  at  him. 

"You    mean    you've    been    taking    money?"   Stephen 


320  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

said  at  length  slowly,  in  a  patient  voice  from  which 
miserable  certainty  had.,  taken  all  the  hope  and  all  the 
life.  Somehow  the  knowledge  did  not  surprise  him; 
but  it  had  been  his  worst  inexpressible  fear,  painfully 
realized  at  the  last. 

There  was  a  hesitation — another  clear  pause  that  left 
no  doubt  of  Roy's  answer. 

"Tell  me  how  it  happened." 

Huskily  and  in  gasping  sentences,  each  of  which  was 
followed  by  a  perceptible  break,  Roy  explained. 

"Two  months  ago  .  .  .  they  put  me  on  the  till.  I've 
been  putting  dockets  through.  They  found  it  out.  Of 
course  I  swore  blind  I  hadn't  done  it;  but  they'd  found 
out  somehow.  I  know  all  the  other  chaps  have  done  it. 
It's  always  done." 

"But  you,  Roy!"  It  was  Stephen's  only  reproach. 
Roy's  voice  grew  still  lower. 

"It  was  all  right  at  first.  I  .  .  .  But  the  old  man's 
been  taking  my  money.  It's  been  gone  out  of  my  pockets 
.  .  .  and  he's  asked  me  for  odd  bits  of  it.  .  .  ." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  Stephen  cried.  "I  could 
have  stopped  it  as  easily  as  anything.  There's  no  reason 
why  he  should  do  that.    Why  ever  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

Roy  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him,  with  an  air  that  was 
partly  cunning,  partly  afraid,  and  partly  altogether 
honest.     His  speech  followed  the  truth. 

"Well — after  that  last  time  at  Hampstead  ...  I 
thought  I'd  put  my  foot  in  it  about  Minnie.  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  want  me.  .  .  .  You  see,  the  old  man 
said " 

"Oh,  damn  the  old  man!"  Stephen  exclaimed,  jerking 
his  hands,  and  walking  about  the  room  in  a  fierce  irri- 
tation. "You  know  you  oughtn't  to  listen  to  him.  Damn ! 
It's  sickening!  .  .  .  However,  it's  no  good  to  say  that. 
It's  too  late.  Is  it  much  money?"  He  turned  abruptly 
upon  Roy. 


ROY  IN  TROUBLE  321 

Roy  wavered.  He  couldn't  bring  himself  to  say  any- 
thing, in  case  Stephen  might  fly  out  at  him.  He  was 
genuinely  afraid.     He  began  to  speak  inaudibly. 

"They  found  out  and  sent  me  home.  Told  me  to 
come.  .  .  ." 

"Is  it  much?" 

"I  .  .  .  not  a  lot  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  ."  stammered 
Roy.     "I'm  to  go  down  there.  .  .  ." 

"How  much  is  it?  How  much  do  you  think  it  is?" 
Stephen  was  inexorable.  "I  suppose  they  won't  prose- 
cute as  they  sent  you  home;  but  the  money  must  some- 
how be  paid  back.  I  must  know  how  much  it  is.  You 
see  that,  don't  you?" 

He  appealed  suddenly  to  Roy,  who  had  grown  white 
again,  and  stood  cowed  before  him. 

"It's  about  .  .  .  God  knows  how  it's  mounted.  I 
haven't  kept  any  account.  I  started  doing  it,  meaning 
at  first  to  put  it  back.  .  .  .  It's  about  .  .  .  it's  about 
fifteen  pounds." 

Stephen  was  appalled.  To  him,  even  now,  it  was 
a  great  sum;  and  he  did  not  know  how  he  could  ob- 
tain it. 

"I  say,  Roy,  that's  ...  In  such  a  short  time.  What 
have  you  been  doing  with  it?  Is  it  betting?  Something 
of  that  sort?" 

Roy's  head  sank  lower;  his  foot  moved  uneasily. 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  I've  done  with  it.  It's  gone. 
The  old  man  had  some  ...  a  lot." 

"You're  trying  to  throw  all  the  blame  on  the  old  man ! 
Don't  be  such  a  coward,  Roy !"  Stephen  spoke  sharply 
because  he  saw  that  Roy's  impulse  was  to  exploit  their 
natural  hostility  to  one  another.  He  would  not  permit 
such  a  blind.  "You  must  have  spent  a  good  deal  your- 
self. And  as  I've  got  to  make  it  good  I  want  to  know 
what  I'm  paying  for.    Have  you  thought  of  it  like  that  ?" 

"No." 


322  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"Don't  talk  about  the  old  man  then !  Own  up  to  your 
own  share.     You  know  what  he  is." 

"It's  God's  truth,  Stephen,"  began  Roy  eagerly.  "He's 
had  a  lot.     As  much  as  me." 

"Have  you  been  drinking,  or  playing  cards,  or  .  .  . 
what  is  it?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Roy's  face  had  stiffened;  his 
mouth  was  twisted  in  an  ugly  expression  of  obstinacy, 
and  his  general  cast  had  assumed  an  uncompromis- 
ing stubbornness.  Stephen  saw  that  inquiries  such  as 
he  had  been  making  must  tend  to  make  other  matters 
between  them  more  difficult;  and  he  desisted  for  the 
time. 

"I'd  better  go  and  call  on  David  Evandine,  get  him 
to  lend  me  the  money  for  a  few  days,  and  then  go  down 
with  you  to  your  office  and  see  the  manager.  Roy,  I 
hope  you  haven't  been  taking  one  of  these  squawking 
girls  to  the  music-halls.  .  .  .  That's  not  it,  is  it  ?  Cheap 
jewellery  and  chocolates?  That  gets  rid  of  a  lot."  He 
thought  he  had  probably  hit  upon  the  true  explanation; 
but  he  knew  that  even  if  he  were  right  there  would  be 
no  chance  of  having  his  guess  confirmed.  He  knew  that 
the  peculiar  code  of  honour  of  young  manhood  prevents 
revelation  of  that  sort  to  an  elder.  He  sighed  sharply, 
as  Roy  gave  him  the  expected  refusal. 

"I  can't  tell  you."  Roy's  tone  was  dogged.  "The 
old  man's  had  a  lot.    Really,  he  has." 

Stephen  thought  quickly  as  to  a  possible  course. 

"One  thing,"  he  said.  "You  stay  here  no  longer. 
You're  coming  home  with  me  to-day.  That's  certain. 
But  meanwhile  I  must  borrow  the  money  and  go  with 
you  to  the  office." 

A  slow  painful  scraping  noise,  as  of  somebody  descend- 
ing stairs  one  by  one  in  slack  and  broken  slippers,  reached 
the  ears  of  both. 

"Here's   the   old   man!"   cried   Roy  in   quick   alarm. 


ROY  IN  TROUBLE  323 

"He's  in  an  awful  state!"  He  moved  behind  Stephen, 
shielding  himself. 

A  moment  later  the  door  opened,  and  the  old  man 
appeared  as  in  a  frame,  bowed  and  with  a  look  of  elab- 
orate misery  upon  his  face.  His  hair  was  over  his  eyes, 
his  brilliant  teeth  were  all  gone,  his  scraggy  neck  appeared 
above  the  collar  of  a  dressing-gown  which  had  once  been 
gorgeous.    He  supported  himself  against  the  doorway. 

"Ss  .  .  .  Stephen  .  .  ."  he  mumbled,  with  a  lisp. 
"Thank  God,  my  boy,  you've  come."  His  voice  sank 
to  an  impressive  whisper.  "I've  had  .  .  .  I've  had  .  .  ." 
His  head  waggled.  "I've  had  a  wakeful  night  .  .  . 
thin  .  .  .  thinking  about  you.  .  .  .  Thank  God,  my  boy. 
....  Back  to  your  old  home.  .  .  .  Eh,  but  it's  a  sight 
for  sair  eyes.  .  .  .  My  brave  boy  Stephen!" 


Stephen's  reply  to  these  greetings  was  a  silent  look 
which  had  the  effect  of  making  the  old  man  come  from 
the  doorway  into  the  room,  blinking  his  eyelids  and 
carrying  his  shoulders  forward  as  though  he  were  sud- 
denly bent  with  age.  And  indeed  Stephen  was  aware 
of  a  subtle  change  in  him.  It  had  not  been  his  wont  to 
appear  thus  in  his  dressing-gown.  He  had  clearly  grown 
for  some  reason  careless  of  appearances,  if  it  were  not, 
as  Stephen  suspected,  that  he  had  for  this  occasion  as- 
sumed the  part  of  an  enfeebled  old  creature,  forlorn  and 
piteous.  His  eyes  had  lost  their  bitter  smiling  glance  of 
complacency  and  were  bloodshot  and  weak-looking;  his 
carriage  was  strangely  reduced,  so  that  his  figure  appeared 
wizened.  The  absence  of  his  denture  had  allowed  his 
cheeks  to  fall  in  and  his  lips  to  lose  all  their  firmness ;  and 
his  neck,  which  usually  rose  from  above  his  very  tall 
collar  in  proud  support  of  his  head,  was  withered  and 
shrivelled  in  a  hundred  tiny  inglorious  puckers.     He  was 


324  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

indeed  old.  To  call  him  old,  by  a  familiar  method  of 
reference,  seemed  to  be  an  indecency,  because  it  had  lost 
its  humorous  sting.  He  was  old,  grey,  haggard.  Stephen 
looked  at  him ;  and  the  longer  he  looked  the  more  im- 
pressed he  was  by  the  change  in  his  father's  appearance. 

"I'm  going  to  see  Roy  through  his  scrape,"  Stephen 
said ;  "and  then  I'm  going  to  take  him  away  from  you." 

The  old  man  groped  forward.  He  had  become 
grotesque. 

"Steve!  .  .  .  Don't  take  my  boy."  It  was  a  piercing 
cry,  almost  a  prayer.  His  attitude  became  imploring. 
"What  should  I  do  without  my  boy?  He's  my  baby. 
You've  taken  little  Dolphy!" 

"D'you  see  what  you've  brought  him  to?"  Stephen 
said  slowly.  "D'you  see  that  this  is  your  doing?  It's 
mine,  too,  of  course;  but  I'm  going  to  set  it  right." 

The  old  man  drew  himself  upright.  He  drew  a  breath 
through  his  flaccid  lips.  His  voice  changed,  and  with 
it  his  entire  manner.  In  an  instant  he  had  assumed 
something  of  his  old  malicious  air.  Once  more  he  and 
Stephen  were  declared  enemies,  uncompromising  in  their 
mutual  dislike  and  contempt. 

"Yes,  Stephen,  that's  you  all  over,"  he  said  in  a 
shocking  toothless  way,  like  a  beggar  hag  who  curses 
the  insensitive  passenger.  "As  you've  been  from  the 
very  start.  As  hard  as  stone  ...  as  hard  as  stone.  But 
with  the  most  beautiful  sentiments.  Always  .  .  .  always 
the  most  admirable,  the  most  admirable  sentiments.  .  .  . 
You're  like  a  Christian,  Stephen.  Yes,  you're  like  one 
of  those  damned  self-righteous  parsons.  Singular  thing, 
Stephen.  A  singular  thing,  I  say."  There  came  at  this 
point  an  involuntary  pause,  during  which  he  mouthed 
soundlessly  in  a  way  that  chilled  Stephen  by  its  dreadful 
suggestion  of  impotence.  "You  take  your  mother,  and 
you  try  to  poison  her  mind  against  me ;  you  take  Dorothy 
and  my  boy  there;  and  you  try  to  poison  their  minds 


ROY  IN  TROUBLE  325 

against  me.  You  take  them  away  from  me.  .  .  .  Why, 
you're  like  a  magistrate,  Stephen ;  a  bawdy  magistrate. 
That's  what  you're  like.  Taking  my  .  .  .  children  away 
from  their  father  .  .  .  handing  them  over  to  the  Court 
.  .  .  Missionary.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time — you  sly  fellow 
— you're  methodically  debauching  another  man's  wife 
.  .  .  like  the  impeccable  fellow  you  are.  Impeccable ! 
Immaculate !  The  immaculate  Stephen !  He  he !  There's 
virtue  for  you !  The  old  man's  too  low,  too  popular,  too 
debonair  for  you,  Stephen.  .  .  ."  He  stopped  breath- 
lessly, his  anger  having  exhausted  him;  and  leant  up 
against  the  wall,  recovering  his  breath.  Stephen  had 
never  seen  him  so  vehemently  moved;  but  he  was  himself 
stung  to  a  cold  anger  by  his  father's  accusations. 

"The  old  man  would  have  done  more  to  earn  my 
respect  if  he'd  sacrificed  a  little  of  his  popularity  and 
looked  after  his  children  better,"  Stephen  said  contemptu- 
ously. "Instead  of  posing  his  life  away  and  letting  his 
youngest  child  pilfer  for  him." 

"It's  a  lie!"  shouted  the  old  man,  rearing  up  against 
the  wall  with  his  arms  erect.  "It's  a  lie!"  He  choked 
for  an  instant,  and  subsided  into  a  dreary  sort  of  whisper. 
"My  baby,  my  Roy !" 

"Come  along,  Roy.  Get  your  hat,"  said  Stephen.  To 
the  old  man  he  said  in  the  same  grim  way:  "I  shall 
come  and  see  you  again.  But  Roy  doesn't  come  back. 
D'you  see?"  He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer;  but  went 
out  of  the  room  with  Roy  at  his  heels.  The  old  man 
stood  where  they  left  him,  huddled  in  his  stale  dressing- 
gown,  the  wreck  of  a  gorgeous  plumage  of  old.  And  as 
Stephen  hurried  along,  shaken  by  the  scene  but  still  bent 
upon  his  determination,  he  was  beset  by  one  sure  piece 
of  unhappy  knowledge  that  made  his  position  ten  times 
more  difficult.  He  knew,  that  is  to  say,  that  the  old  man 
was  really  ill ;  but  the  knowledge  which  most  troubled 
him  was  not  that,  nor  anything  connected  with  it.     1  le 


326  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

knew  that  in  spite  of  all  histrionics,  all  feuds,  the  old  man 
deeply  and  passionately  loved  Roy;  and  he  was  guessing 
that  the  old  man's  hatred  for  himself  had  its  roots  in 
jealousy.  It  was  another  lesson  for  him,  and  he  had 
much  to  learn,  much  to  re-examine. 


CHAPTER  XXI:  STRAWS 


FOR  some  time  after  he  had  made  this  discovery 
Stephen  walked  by  Roy's  side  deep  in  thought.  If 
the  discovery  proved  true,  it  would  explain  much  that 
had  puzzled  Stephen  in  the  past.  It  would  put  some  of 
his  own  behaviour  in  a  new  light.  Was  he  jealous  of 
the  old  man  ?  That  thought  made  him  smile.  Neverthe- 
less it  was  possible.  What  seemed  to  him  at  the  moment 
absolutely  certain  was  the  old  man's  profound — almost 
fanatical — jealousy.  For  the  sake  of  preserving  Roy  he 
had  written  that  excited  letter;  but  that  was  simply 
because  he  could  not  lay  his  hands  upon  a  sufficient  sum 
of  money  to  cover  Roy's  liability.  Stephen,  apparently, 
was  his  sole  resource. 

They  went  by  the  underground  electric  railway  to 
Covent  Garden,  where,  in  the  heart  of  publishers,  where 
there  is  as  much  that  is  amusing  to  be  seen  as  there  is 
anywhere  else  in  the  world,  David  lived  his  airy  life  of 
secrecy  and  knowledge.  Directly  the  Moores  entered  the 
building  a  remarkably  tall  youth  who  was  called  Orry  by 
his  fellow-workers  (because  Horace  was  not  his  Christian 
name)  appeared  from  behind  a  glass  erection  and  with 
long,  superhuman  strides  which  left  them  like  panting 
Time  toiling  with  admiration  in  his  rear  led  them  down 
an  endless,  book-bordered  aisle  to  a  dark  room  where 
they  languished  for  some  moments.  It  was  like  pene- 
trating to  the  depths  of  a  mountain.  The  room  seemed 
to  be  brilliantly  lighted  by  electricity,  but  its  area  was  so 
small  and  its  general  appearance  so  circumscribed  that 
it  gave  them  the  impression  of  being  in  a  cavern,  because 
it  enjoyed  no  natural  light  and  no  fresh  air  of  any  descrip- 

327 


328  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

tion.  Huge  trolleys  were  allowed  to  run  up  and  down 
the  aisle  on  rubber-tyred  wheels,  and  every  now  and  then 
a  pile  of  books,  propelled  by  some  unseen  hand,  would 
fall  with  a  crash  near  the  door  of  the  room.  The  noises 
were  so  sudden,  and  so  much  in  contrast  with  the  solemn 
quietude  of  the  office,  that  involuntarily  Stephen  and  Roy 
jumped  at  each  discharge.  From  behind  another  door 
came  the  tic-tac-tacking  of  a  typewriter.  The  noise 
pierced  their  brains  like  the  dreadful  peppering  of  a 
hidden  machine-gun.  They  shared  a  sense  of  being 
appalled.  The  room  was  a  highway.  Hundreds  of 
persons  poured  through  it,  until  it  seemed  like  the  scene 
of  a  farcical  cinema  film.  Roy's  brain  whirled.  It  was 
a  revelation  to  him — this  strange  mixture  of  ease  and 
velocity. 

And  then  came  a  knock,  and  Horace  appeared  once 
more,  this  time  to  lead  them  into  David's  enormous  blue, 
bluely  furnished,  barely  adorned  private  room,  where  he 
lived  in  seclusion  like  a  choice  blue  spider.  David  was 
putting  tobacco  from  a  jar  into  a  pouch  with  one  hand 
while  with  the  other  he  held  a  telephone  receiver.  Roy 
stared  round  the  room  with  awe.  Its  blueness  and  its 
comfort  alike  struck  him  with  wonder.  Although  he  was 
accustomed  to  offices  this  one  was  run  on  lines  that  were 
new  to  him.  As  he  was  rather  quick  in  thought  this 
surprise  went  so  far  as  to  suggest  to  him  that  David's 
office,  whether  it  was  typical  of  publishers'  offices  in 
general  or  whether  it  stood  as  a  single  unsurpassable 
example  of  the  trade,  was  run  on  no  lines  at  all ;  but 
that  was  only  a  momentary  notion,  dispelled  by  a  glance 
at  David. 

"Yes,"  David  was  saying  into  the  telephone  receiver, 
nodding  his  head  as  though  his  hearer  could  be  aware 
of  his  action.  "Well,  you  tell  him  he's  jolly  well  got  to 
deliver  it  on  the  30th.  I've  got  to  get  something  for  my 
travellers  to  show.  .  .  .  He  mustn't  fail !"    To  Stephen, 


STRAWS  329 

as  he  rang  off,  he  said,  with  a  grin,  "These  damned 
authors!  They  don't  understand  they're  only  our  em- 
ployees." 

Stephen  then  demanded  fifteen  pounds. 

ii 

From  that  office  they  went  east,  and  Roy  became  paler. 
He  had  been  gradually  getting  more  and  more  disinclined 
to  face  his  own  employers;  and  if  Stephen  had  not  been 
there  he  very  likely  would  not  have  gone,  but  would  have 
disappeared  for  a  time  until  he  could  get  some  other 
situation.  But  as  Stephen  was  there  he  was  driven  on 
as  it  were  by  inexorable  necessity.  The  City,  at  the  point 
at  which  they  touched  it,  looked  superb;  for  the  sun 
was  full  out  and  the  life  and  brightness  of  the  streets 
was  a  thing  to  make  the  heart  glad.  Stephen  had  no  sense 
here  of  the  crushing  weight  of  life;  he  felt  far  too 
strongly  for  that  the  pressing  and  intricate  detail  of  the 
business  machine.  Besides,  here  were  large  shops,  shops 
where  they  sold  books  and  splendid  things,  offices  where 
enormous  masses  of  trade  were  reduced  to  order  and 
made  negotiable;  shops  and  offices  where  the  real  occu- 
pations of  men  were  illustrated.  So  while  Roy's  heart 
sank,  Stephen's  mounted.  Every  moment  increased 
Stephen's  sense  of  liberty,  of  belief  in  the  organizing 
power  of  man  in  the  hive :  every  moment  increased  Roy's 
paralysing  dread. 

"Here,"  suddenly  said  Roy;  and  they  went  into  a  big 
building  and  up  many  stone  stairs.  There  was  a  swing 
door,  and  a  general  air  of  varnish  and  crystallized  glass. 
A  boy  of  about  fourteen  came  round  from  behind  a 
partition.  He  wore  a  high  collar  of  many  days'  stand- 
ing; and  his  appropriate  name  was  Grubb. 

"Hallo !"  he  said,  with  a  grin.  "Wodger  want  ?"  That 
was  because  he  saw  Roy. 

In  another  moment  they  were  in  the  manager's  room, 


330  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

where  the  manager,  a  hard-faced  man  with  a  very  delight- 
ful smile,  received  them.  He  looked  rather  curiously  at 
the  two  of  them  as  they  went  in,  and  left  Stephen  to 
explain  his  call. 

"See,  you've  been  away  from  home  for  a  month  or 
two,  haven't  you?"  he  asked.  "The  boy's  been  alone 
.  .  .  with  his  father."  He  was  addressing  Stephen,  at 
whom  he  looked  with  no  unfriendliness  at  all. 

"Yes." 

The  man  nodded.  He  was  able  quite  easily  to  under- 
stand the  situation. 

"Your  brother's  been  at  a  loose  end.  It's  a  pity, 
because  he's  not  a  bad  boy.  Of  course  we  shan't  prose- 
cute. In  fact  I  hardly  expected  to  see  him  to-day.  I  gave 
him  a  talking  to  last  night.  He  won't  say  what  he's  done 
with  the  money.  He'd  better  get  another  job — where 
there's  not  the  temptation.  One's  bound  to  take  a  certain 
amount  of  risk;  and  I'd  give  him  another  chance  myself 
if  we  had  anything  to  turn  him  on  to.  Bound  to  happen 
if  there's  a  temptation,  you  know.  But  I  expect  this 
wouldn't  have  happened  if  you'd  been  at  home,  eh?" 

"No,  it  wouldn't!"  blurted  out  Roy.  "He's  a 
brick!" 

iii 

From  the  City  they  went  again  to  the  West  End,  for 
it  was  Stephen's  day  to  call  at  The  Norm  office.  There 
he  met  with  an  unexpected  piece  of  news  which  put  him 
in  high  glee.  It  was  to  the  effect  that  for  the  present 
The  Norm  would  be  continued,  as  calculations  had  shown 
the  dilettante  proprietor  that  if  he  carried  it  on  for 
another  year  it  might  begin  to  pay,  or  at  least  to  get  so 
near  to  paying  that  he  might  sell  it  to  advantage  as  a 
going  concern.  For  the  time,  therefore,  Stephen  was 
safe,  unless  this  rather  arbitrary  proprietor  should  once 
again  change  his  mind  and  decree  otherwise. 


STRAWS  331 

"Don't  be  too  sure !"  advised  the  editor.  "He's  tender 
now.  At  any  moment  ...  Of  course  I  should  get 
six  months'  salary  and  drop  into  something.  And  I 
should  keep  in  touch  with  you." 

The  editor  was  a  fat  jovial-looking  man  from  the 
North  of  England,  who  took  himself  very  seriously,  but 
who  took  everything  else  with  a  superabundance  of 
jocosity  which  adjusted  matters  and  made  him  an  agree- 
able companion.  He  was  curious  about  Stephen,  and 
had  once  asked  him  to  lunch  in  order  to  understand  him 
better.  But  as  the  experiment  had  not  been  a  success, 
and  as  Stephen  never  knew  whether  he  ought  to  ask  the 
editor  back  again,  their  acquaintance  remained  that  of 
a  capable  editor  and  his  industrious,  reliable  assistant, 
without  developing,  as  it  might  well  have  done,  into  a 
friendship  based  upon  mutual  esteem.  On  this  occasion 
he  beguiled  a  few  moments  with  scandalous  anecdote, 
and  sent  Stephen  away  with  a  bright  red  load  under  his 
arm  and  a  very  black  load  off  his  heart. 

"We'll  get  some  lunch,"  said  Stephen  to  Roy. 

iv 

It  was  at  lunch  that  they  began  for  the  first  time  to 
talk. 

"It'll  be  best  if  you  come  home  with  me  now,"  said 
Stephen.  "I  mean  home  to  Hampstead.  We'll  put  you 
up  for  a  bit.  Don't  go  on.  ...  I  know  you  won't  do 
it,  though.  It's  such  a  beastly  thing.  Once  you  start, 
you  go  on.  .  .  .  You  can't  help  it.  But  if  you  pull  up 
now  .  .  .  D'you  see?" 

"Yes,"  said  Roy.  "I  say,  Steve  .  .  .  You've  been 
jolly  good.  I  mean  to  say,  I  thought  .  .  .  Well,  I  was 
afraid  you'd  snarl.  I  won't  do  it  .  .  .  you  know  I 
won't.  I  felt  rotten;  but  I  suppose  I  went  off  my  head. 
I  know  she's  no  good,  and  all  .  .  .  I've  been  swank- 
ing. .  .  ." 


332  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Stephen  nodded. 

"D'you  think  you'll  want  to  go  back?"  he  asked. 

"Not  if  .  .  .  See,  it's  been  so  beastly — evenings,  you 
know;  and  the  place  all  quiet.  Only  the  old  man.  He 
got  on  my  nerves.  He's  been  crazy  about  you.  I've 
had  yards  of  it.  Yards.  Like  what  he  said  this  morning. 
Over  and  over  again.  So  I  stopped  out.  I  got  fed  up 
with  it.  And  I  was  with  young  Tom ;  and  she — Emerald 
— was  with  another  girl.  We  talked  to  them.  She's 
.  .  .  she  lives  in  Slapperton.  Her  father's  a  window- 
cleaner,  a  little  drunken  chap  with  about  a  hundred  kids. 
She's  ...  I  couldn't  help  it,  somehow :  Tom's  given  the 
other  one — her  friend — a  little  brooch;  and  Emerald 
started  dropping  hints  about  how  she  wished  she'd  got 
somebody  to  give  her  things.  For  a  long  time  I  didn't 
take  any  notice;  and  then  she  started  going  off  with 
another  fellow.  I  tried  to  give  her  up.  I  went  home 
every  evening.  Couldn't  go  with  Tom,  'cause  he  was 
with  his  one.  And  the  old  man  was  worse  than  ever. 
Then  I  met  her  one  Saturday  and  we  went  to  the  pictures, 
and  I  .  .  .  well,  I  blued  all  I'd  got,  getting  her  some 
bangles.  Hadn't  got  much.  It's  gone  on.  I  told  her 
I  was  getting  two  pounds  a  week.  I  got  some  clothes 
....  and  a  ring  and  a  cane.  You  know.  .  .  .  But  the 
old  man's  had  a  lot.  Really,  he  has.  He's  been  taking 
it  out  of  my  pockets.  When  he  gets  a  bit  'on'  he's  got 
the  cunning  of  the  very  devil.  .  .  ." 

Stephen  did  not  check  this  quick,  mumbled  monologue. 
The  whole  thing  was  tumbling  out  now  that  he  had  ceased 
to  question;  and  the  strained,  earnest  voice  of  Roy  was 
a  good  enough  indication  of  his  sincerity.  Stephen  felt 
sick  as  he  realized  the  picture,  and  saw  that  ugly,  unin- 
viting home  again  before  his  eye.  Yet  before  his  mar- 
riage he  had  tried  to  wean  Roy  from  the  old  man  and 
had  found  his  very  effort  checked  and  countered  by  some 
adroit  move  on  the  old  man's  part.     Dorothy  had  been 


STRAWS  333 

easy :  she  would  on  no  account  have  stayed  at  home :  and 
a  talk  with  Mrs.  Evandine  long  before  had  relieved  his 
mind  about  her  immediate  future.  But  for  Roy  the 
father  and  brother  had  struggled  long  and  silently;  and 
in  the  end  Roy  had  under  pressure  manifested  so  decided 
a  wish  to  stay  with  the  old  man  that  Stephen  with  fore- 
boding had  submitted  to  his  choice.  And  this  was  the 
outcome.     Well,  it  was  over. 

"He's  been  mad  about  you  and  Minnie.  He  found 
something  out  about  it  in  a  letter  he  showed  me.  Then 
he  got  on  to  Bayley;  and  they  both  cried  with  drunken- 
ness. I  saw  them  in  the  street,  leaning  on  each  other. 
.  .  .  But  the  old  man  only  tried  to  find  out  .  .  .  about 
Minnie.  And  he  made  up  a  long  yarn.  At  first  Bayley 
wanted  to  fight  him.  That  was  when  he  was  only  half 
tipsy.  Later  on  it  was  all  the  other  way  round.  I  say, 
you  know :  Minnie's  left  him.  She's  doing  dressmaking 
or  something.  She  lives  somewhere  off  City  Road  .  .  . 
a  little  street.     Looks  awful.  .  .  ." 

"Oh."  Stephen  felt  his  blood  stir;  he  felt  it  in  his 
cheeks.  "Where's  she  living?  D'you  know  where  it 
is?    Good  God!"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 

Roy  managed  to  dig  up  the  name  of  the  street  from  the 
recesses  of  his  memory. 

"I  told  her  she  ought  to  let  you  know,"  he  said.  "But 
she  wouldn't.    She  started  crying  when  I  said  that.  .  .  ." 


They  finished  their  lunch  and  went  to  the  Tube  again. 
Stephen  heard  the  boys  shouting  as  they  trudged  through 
the  crowded  Strand  down  towards  Charing  Cross.  Big 
bills  in  all  kinds  of  type,  all  colours  of  ink,  roared  at 
them.  "CRICKET  :  LUNCH  SCORES"  or  "SUSSEX 
ALL  OUT"  and  some  racing  information  in  smaller 
type  at  the  foot.  Taxicabs  hummed  along,  and  there  was 
a  great  press  of  people,  like  a  released  theatre  audience, 


334  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

forced  into  the  roadway  by  their  excessive  numbers.  A 
lazy  heat  burned  the  air  and  made  the  very  roadway  a 
medium  for  further  heat.  In  the  Tube  all  was  cool.  A 
gust  of  wind  met  them  in  the  passages  leading  to  the 
trains,  like  a  November  gale. 

At  Hampstead  it  was  as  though  they  had  reached  the 
country.  The  winding  street  to  the  Heath  was  as  allur- 
ing as  ever.  Here  nobody  hurried;  for  all  seemed  bent 
upon  some  pleasant  hasteless  errand.  It  was  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  so  slow  had  been  their  progress ;  and  the 
sun,  though  now  declining,  was  still  oppressively  fierce. 
Here  as  one  ascended  to  the  heights  there  was  a  gentle 
breeze,  stirring  languidly  the  sweeping  bunches  of  green 
that  cast  so  exquisite  a  shadow.  They  breathed  more 
freely,  glad  to  be  released  from  the  troubles  of  the  earlier 
day. 

As  they  approached  the  cottage  Stephen  pressed 
forward,  thinking  only  of  the  way  in  which  he  might 
best  relieve  Minnie's  necessities.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  else,  and  was  hardly  aware  of  Roy's  presence 
at  his  side.  But  when  they  came  nearer  he  looked  on 
ahead.  At  the  other  end  of  the  pleasant  little  road  he 
saw  two  figures,  walking  towards  him.  Both  were  un- 
mistakable, and  the  recognition  of  both  sent  a  fresh  pang 
to  his  heart,  compared  with  which  no  single  moment  of 
the  day  had  carried  an  equal  unhappiness.  Instinctively 
he  looked  aside  at  Roy,  who  was  gazing  about  him  with 
undisguised  interest  and  wonder.  Stephen  shrugged; 
but  his  shrug  was  one  of  misery ;  for  Hilary  was  walking 
with  Priscilla  back  to  the  cottage,  and  Priscilla  had  not 
seen  Stephen  because  she  was  listening  to  Hilary  and 
looking  towards  him. 


CHAPTER  XXII:  MINNIE 


MINNIE  was  busy  with  the  sewing-machine  when 
Stephen  called  at  the  address  Roy  had  given 
him.  He  went  into  a  very  dirty  passage  with  brown  wall- 
paper against  which  a  million  people  had  leant,  and  saw 
it  peeling  away  at  the  joints.  The  woman  who  opened 
the  door  was  haggard  and  only  half  dressed,  with  a  long 
dressing-gown  on  top  of  her  deshabille :  she  called  up  the 
stairs,  "Missus  Bayley!"  "Missus  Bay-lee!"  and  other 
variants  upon  Minnie's  name  with  an  air  of  long-suffering 
that  was  ridiculous.  Then  she  allowed  Stephen  to 
ascend,  which  was  a  privilege  he  did  not  expect,  since 
he  knew  from  experience  that  tenants  of  a  ground  floor 
have  generally  sufficient  goodwill  to  those  resident  in 
upper  floors  to  exclude  anybody  likely  to  be  a  dun.  He 
went  up  and  up  until  the  whir  of  Minnie's  machine  struck 
his  ear.  Even  so,  his  knock  did  not  reach  her,  so  loud 
and  engrossing  was  the  fierce  buzz  of  the  gyrating  wheel : 
and  when  at  last  he  entered  she  stopped  her  work  with  a 
blanched  face.  The  tears  started  to  her  eyes.  Instinct, 
however,  reinforced  her  self-control. 

"Hallo!"  said  Minnie.  "Never  expected  to  see 
you!" 

Stephen  closed  the  door  and  put  his  hat  down.  The 
room,  so  drab  and  so  bare  in  every  detail  of  its  repulsive 
dinginess,  was  like  a  blow.  It  would  be  impossible  to  be 
cheerful  in  such  a  room.  To  work  in  it  was  to  taste  the 
sheer  horror  of  solitary  confinement. 

"I  only  heard  yesterday  that  you  were  here,"  he  said. 
"Have  you  been  doing  this  long?" 

She  smiled  at  him  and  stretched  her  hands  out  to  him 

335 


336  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

across  the  top  of  the  sewing-machine — a  weary  but  in- 
gratiating gesture. 

"Well,  it's  fine  to  see  you !"  she  said.  "No,  I  haven't 
been  here  long.  You  heard  I'd  left  him?  Couldn't 
stand  it.  He  got  mixed  up  with  that  old  gaffer  of  yours 
— a  fine  pair  of  them.  And  he  lost  his  job  too.  That 
meant  he  was  always  hanging  about !"  She  smiled,  and 
as  her  lips  drew  back  they  revealed  her  beautiful  teeth. 
Although  her  cheeks  were  pale  her  teeth  and  her  warm 
soft  brown  eyes  remained  singularly  lovely.  But  Stephen 
could  tell  how  thin  she  was.  Her  hands,  which  for  a 
moment  had  been  held  by  his  own,  were  wasted.  "Well, 
what  was  the  good  of  staying?  It  isn't  as  though  I'd 
ever  had  a  baby  or  anything  to  keep  me  there.  And  it 
isn't  as  though  I  cared  a  pin  for  him.  You  know  there's 
only  one  man  I  ever  did  that  for."  She  had  left  off 
smiling,  and  was  quite  grave  again  now,  watching  him 
with  a  meditative  air.  "You  don't  look  as  if  you  were 
happy,  Stephen,"  she  said  sharply.  "It's  not  me,  is  it? 
He  hasn't  been  worrying  you  about  me — your  old  gaffer, 
I  mean?" 

In  spite  of  Stephen's  disclaimer,  Minnie  rose  from  her 
sewing-machine  and  drew  him  to  the  window,  so  that 
she  might  look  at  him  with  the  more  attention. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  be  looked  at,"  Stephen  said, 
with  a  half-smile;  "but  to  look  at  you.  And  now  I 
see  you  I  see  that  this  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on.  .  .  .  It's 
terrible,  Minnie." 

"Well,  if  /  was  your  wife  I  should  feel  worried  about 
you.  I  know  that  much.  Look  at  your  face !"  She 
took  his  arm  and  pressed  it  to  her  side.  "She  wouldn't 
mind  that,  if  she  could  see  it — would  she?  Perhaps  she 
would,  though."  For  a  moment  they  stood  thus,  and 
then  she  released  his  arm.  "Think  so?"  Minnie  added, 
with  a  sigh. 

"I  want  to  know  what  you're  doing,"  said  Stephen, 


MINNIE  337 

turning  back  to  the  room  and  indicating  the  machine. 
"How  much  you're  making:  and  what  you  need.  And 
also,  I  want  to  know  how  long  you  mean  to  stay  in  this 
filthy  hutch.     It  can't  be  done,  Minnie." 

She  laughed  a  little :  but  her  lips  trembled.  The  pallor 
round  her  eyes  was  the  more  noticeable  because  the  eyes 
themselves  were  so  bright  and  tender.  Some  women  use 
belladonna  to  lend  such  brightness :  but  Minnie  had  no 
need  of  other  drugs  than  her  love  for  Stephen. 

"Don't  be  cross  with  me,"  she  begged,  and  again  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "I  had  to  come  somewhere. 
That — what's  on  the  machine  there  and  those  other 
things" — she  pointed  into  a  gloomy  corner  with  her  free 
hand — "are  shirts.  I  get  two  bob  a  dozen  for  machining 
them  and  doing  the  buttonholes.  The  woman  on  the 
ground  floor  gets  them  all  ready  cut  out  from  the  factory, 
and  she  gives  them  out  to  me  and  half  a  dozen  others. 
Then  she  does  the  finishing  herself.  She's  a  funny 
woman.  .  .  .  Very  proud.  She  says  she  'don't  assho- 
shiate'  with  the  people  in  this  neighbourhood.  She's 
rather  pally  with  me  though.  .  .  ." 

"But  look  here,  Minnie.  It  can't  go  on.  You  can't 
live  like  this."  He  was  stern,  because  he  thought  she 
was  trying  to  evade  him. 

"And  it's  not  going  on,  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  answered 
with  a  sudden  vehemence.  "But  I  had  to  come  some- 
where. I  had  to  get  something  to  do.  When  you  don't 
know  a  soul  to  help  you  it's  not  so  easy  as  it  might  seem. 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  come  away.  Next  thing — get 
something  to  do.  When  I'm  more  confident  I  shall  get 
more  ambitious.  I  shall  be  a  finisher :  I  shall  cut  out : 
I  shall  go  into  a  suburb  and  be  a  dressmaker.  I've  worked 
it  all  out.  'Madame  Bayley,'  or  'Madame  Minnetta.' 
them  flock !  Follow  the  crowd !"  She  was  pre- 
tending a  gaiety  that  was  practically  all  of  it  a 
defence. 


338  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Stephen  grunted.  It  might  be  a  practical,  but  it 
certainly  was  not  an  ideal,  scheme  of  life. 

"Have  you  got  any  money?"  he  demanded,  as  a  first 
attempt  to  ascertain  a  necessary  fact. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  airily.  "A  fair  sum.  And  now 
what  about  you?" 

"How  much  money  have  you  got?"  inquired  Stephen. 

"Oh,  bother!  You're  a  regular  Nosey  Parker!" 
Minnie  cried,  with  a  wretched  attempt  to  bluff  him. 
"Why,  I'm  rolling  in  it !" 

Stephen  shook  his  head  gloomily.  He  was  not  deceived. 
The  attempt  made  him  the  more  suspicious. 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't  got  any,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
believe  you've  got  any  at  all." 

"Yes  I  have — in  that  box!"  Minnie  pointed  into  the 
dullness. 

He  made  a  step  towards  the  mantelpiece,  upon  which 
the  box  lay:  and  she  moved  quickly  to  intercept  him. 
For  a  moment  she  clung  to  him  with  her  arms,  and  then, 
upon  an  impulse,  darted  her  head  forward  and  kissed 
his  cheek. 

"There!"  she  cried.  "Don't  look  in  the  box!  It's 
got  my  treasures.  And,  really,  I've  got  two  shillings 
there  as  well.    I'm  saving !" 


As  quickly  as  before  she  drew  back  and  surveyed 
Stephen  from  a  distance.  He  made  no  further  move- 
ment towards  the  box.  He  looked  from  the  faded, 
stained  wall-paper  to  her  face,  into  which,  at  her  own 
boldness,  a  faint  tinge  had  come.  Her  eyes  were  spark- 
ling; for  her  Stephen  was  the  only  man  in  the  world. 

"Two  shillings  is  not  enough,"  he  said  dryly. 

"Old  sober!  Well,  it's  better  than  being  the  other 
way.  But,  Stephen  .  .  .  what's  the  matter  with  you? 
I  mean,  of  course  you're  shocked  at  me.     I  know  you're 


MINNIE  339 

that.  You  think  I've  forgotten  you're  a  married  man, 
and  all  that.  Don't  you?  No:  I  know  you're  not 
shocked.  But  you  look  miserable.  Oh  crikey!  Isn't 
there  a  lot  of  that  in  this  world!"  She  broke  off  with 
a  long  sigh.  "My  word!  What  a  lot  there  is!  And 
not  a  soul  cares  for  anybody  else's  but  their  own.  It's 
true,  you  know.  It's  a  funny  thing — you've  always  been 
everything  to  me;  and  you  can't — couldn't  understand 
it.  But  I  understand.  Is  ...  is  your  .  .  .  you  know, 
your  wife  ...  is  she  happy?     I'd  like  to  see  her  one 

day.     You  know,  not  to  talk  to;  but " 

"Minnie!  Minnie!"  cried  Stephen,  "don't  talk  like  that! 
Of  course  you  shall  see  her.  And  she  shall  talk  to  you. 
She'll  talk  to  you.  D'you  think  she  can't  understand 
you?" 

"Oh,  no."  Minnie  shook  her  head.  "I  shouldn't  like 
to  talk  to  her  ...  I  should  feel  I  was  playing  it  low 
down,  talking  to  her — and  her  not  knowing  who  I  was. 
And  if  she  knew,  she  wouldn't  want  to  talk  to  me.  Not 
a  nice  woman  wouldn't !" 

Stephen  took  her  hand  in  order  to  emphasize  his 
explanation. 

"She  knows — "  he  began.  "I've  told  her  all  about 
everything  .  .  .  every  word." 

"Oh,  that's  why  you're  miserable!"  cried  Minnie  in 
a  flash.     "That's  certain !" 
"Yes.     That's  why." 

"You  must  be  pretty  sure  of  her  to  tell  her  so  soon," 
Minnie  said,  with  a  rueful  air.  "Alfred  didn't  start 
telling  me  anything  of  that  sort  till  we'd  been  married 
a  couple  of  years.     And  then  he  was  drunk." 

Stephen  groaned.  The  reference  seemed  to  make  his 
heart  bitter  within  him. 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  you  see  I'm  not  Alfred,"  he  said  slowly, 
and  at  her  murmur  he  went  on  to  explain.  "No :  she's 
gone  right  away  from  me.     But  that's  nothing.     She 


340  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

knows  who  you  are.  I've  told  her  everything.  And 
she'll  understand.  D'you  see?  I  shall  ask  her  if  I  may 
bring  you  to  see  her." 

Minnie  laughed — a  dreadful  nervous  titter  at  a  sugges- 
tion so  naive. 

"A  lot  you  know  about  it !"  she  said.    "You  try  it  on  !" 

"I  will !"  answered  Stephen.     "You'll  see." 

"It's  not  human  nature." 

"No  :  it's  Priscilla,"  was  his  retort.  "That's  a  different 
thing.     She's  real." 

iii 

Minnie  mused  for  a  moment  at  that.  She  sat  down 
again  at  her  machine,  with  her  arms  across  it,  thinking. 

"Priscilla,"  she  repeated.  "It's  a  nice  name,  isn't 
it?"  Then  she  laughed  a  little.  "So  that's  where  you 
were  that  evening.  Funny!  My  saying  'nice'  brought 
it  all  back.  I  was  soppy  that  night.  I  didn't  know  what 
I  was  saying.  When  I  got  there  and  you  were  out  I 
thought  I  should  have  flopped  down.  I  felt  quite  sick 
.  .  .  kept  hoping  you'd  come  in.  And  then  when  you 
came  I  was  worked  up.  Did  you  know  I  used  to  come 
and  see  Dorothy?  She  never  let  on.  She's  a  real  sport. 
I  used  to  come  and  hear  what  you  were  doing,  and  see 
what  you'd  written — not  that  I  could  read  it.  Too 
educated  for  me.  And  you  never  knew  I'd  been  any- 
where there.  No  good  now  you're  married.  It  wouldn't 
do.  When  I  heard  you  were  going  to  be  married  it  nearly 
killed  me.  I  seemed  to  go  all  soft.  Did  you  feel  sorry 
for  me?  Did  you  think  about  me?  Oh,  I  do  talk — 
don't  I?  And  your  Priscilla  ...  I  would  like  to  see 
her.  You'll  never  understand  what  it  is  to  love  anybody 
that  doesn't  love  you.  Feel  you  could  let  them  trample 
on  you;  and  they  wouldn't  dream  of  doing  it.  You 
needn't  begin  to  frown.  I'm  not  ashamed  of  saying  it. 
Why  should  I  be?    She  wouldn't  like  me.     She's  never 


MINNIE  341 

been  married  to  Alf  Bayley!  If  she  had — my  word! 
Then  she'd  know  a  little  bit  more  about  what  life  was. 
Don't  you  think  so?" 

Stephen  took  no  notice  of  the  long  speech.  He  heard 
it :  the  words  pierced  through  to  his  heart.  He  saw 
Minnie  made  wise  by  suffering  which  had  been  hard  to 
bear.  He  tried  to  imagine  a  meeting  between  Minnie  and 
Priscilla.  Well?  His  mind  did  not  shrink  from  it, 
though  his  heart  did.  He  thought  Minnie  might  behave 
badly,  as  she  did  when  she  was  not  at  ease,  when  she 
became  self-conscious,  moved  about,  and  twisted  her  lips. 
But  here,  now,  he  admired  her  as  he  had  never  done. 
He  was  puzzled  at  finding  her  so.  How  could  he  know 
the  lonely  hours  she  had  spent  thinking  of  him?  How 
could  he  guess  that  her  love  for  him  was  as  great  as 
Priscilla's  love?  And  perhaps  greater,  because  it  had 
never  looked  for  any  return  beyond  the  kindness  he 
would  have  given  his  least  friend. 

"What  I  feel,"  he  suddenly  blurted  out,  "is  the  amount 
of  harm  a  man  can  do  who  tries  to  go  straight  and  .  .  . 
Here  are  you  .  .  .  and  my  wife  .  .  .  and  ...  I  think 
you're  perfectly  splendid,  you  know.  .  .  .  Look  here, 
Minnie:  I  must  go.  If  I  start  talking  I  shall  get 
sentimental." 

"And  I  shall  lose  my  character!"  she  said,  starting 
up.  "My  friend  downstairs  will  have  a  fit.  Not  proper, 
you  know !     Well,  I  shall  see  you  again  .  .  .  shall  I  ?" 

"And  Dorothy?" 

Minnie  smiled  with  an  archness  that  made  her  eyes 
seem  big  and  mysterious. 

"Oh,  you're  a  great  big  baby!"  she  said.  "D'you 
think  I  don't  get  a  letter  every  week  from  Dorothy? 
Why,  I  know  she's  engaged.  She  hasn't  been  here.  I 
don't  want  her  to  come  here.  It'd  make  her  cry.  She's 
such  a  soft-hearted  kid.  Good-bye,  my  dear;  and  God 
bless  you." 


342  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

She  remained  behind  the  sewing-machine  and  extended 
her  hand,  as  though  she  were  frightened  that  he  would 
try  to  kiss  her.  Stephen  took  the  hand  she  held  out, 
and  pressed  it  hard. 

"You're  splendid,"  he  said  breathlessly.  "Good- 
bye.    You'll  hear  .  .  .  you'll  see  me  again." 

He  closed  the  door  and  stumbled  down  the  stairs; 
and  Minnie,  standing  still  behind  her  machine,  looked  at 
the  hand  he  had  pressed  as  if  it  were  something  strange. 
Then  with  a  quick  almost  furtive  gesture  she  raised  it 
to  her  lips. 

"The  dear !"  she  said  in  a  minute,  and  meditatively 
rubbed  her  check  with  her  hand,  looking  into  a  far 
distance,  lost  in  reverie. 


CHAPTER  XXIII:    DANGER 


SKEFFINGTON  was  inclined  to  be  interested  in  Roy 
as  the  latest  example  of  Moore  Psychology  made 
known  to  him.  In  Roy  he  saw  none  of  the  grim  endeavour 
which  he  respected  in  Stephen,  none  of  the  good  temper 
and  sanguine  spirits  of  Dorothy.  Instead,  there  was  the 
puzzling  half-bakedness  of  youth,  when — as  at  night  all 
cats  are  said  to  be  grey — there  comes  a  time  when  one 
young  man  seems  very  much  like  another  young  man 
of  his  own  age  and  tradition.  Skeffington,  who  often 
came  to  see  the  Moores,  was  quietly  interested  in  all  that 
he  saw  in  their  house.  All  that  curious  electrical  nervous- 
ness which  made  him  talk  at  times  foolishly  sank  into 
nothingness  when  he  was  receptive.  Accordingly  he 
surveyed  this  small  family  with  the  beaming  eye  of  affec- 
tion, minutely  interested  in  their  doings  and  their  natures. 
And  Roy  interested  him  because — in  a  phrase — Skeffing- 
ton was  waiting  to  see  how  the  cat  would  jump.  If  it 
jumped  amiss,  into  the  pocket — let  us  say — of  the  old 
man,  or  into  the  pocket  of  ordinary  business  which  has 
such  a  gaping  mouth,  then  Skeffington  supposed,  some- 
where in  a  remote  consciousness  where  such  probabilities 
were  disinterestedly  canvassed,  that  the  good  of  Roy 
would  be  lost,  and  that  he  would  become  irrevocably  like 
his  fellows.  On  the  other  hand,  Skeffington  was  ready 
to  imagine  that  Roy  might  grow  towards  the  sun,  as 
flowers  do,  and  like  them  expand  and  flourish  into  a 
spiritual  individuality.  What  particular  technical  form 
this  might  take  for  its  exemplification  Skeffington  did  not 
care.  Roy  might  jump  towards  a  scientific  career,  or 
he  might  abide  in  a  tabernacle :  he  might  be  a  painter, 

343 


344  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

or  he  might  go  to  sea.  All  that  mattered,  in  Skeffington's 
belief,  was  that  Roy  should  not  jump  wrongly  in  the 
first  instance  and  stultify  himself.  It  was  this  thought 
which  made  him,  after  examining  the  new-comer  by  the 
light  of  nature  and  reporting  thereafter  to  his  own  imagi- 
nation, say  to  Stephen  with  a  mixture  of  cocksureness 
and  hesitation  : 

"That  brother  of  yours.  .  .  .  Have  to  be  careful  of 
him,  you  know." 


The  occasion  of  this  remark  was  a  walk  undertaken  by 
the  two  men  upon  Hampstead  Heath,  where  they  had 
thrown  themselves  on  the  grass.  Both  were  lazily  smok- 
ing, propped  upon  their  elbows,  and  watching  the  shim- 
mer of  the  hot  air  just  above  the  earth.  They  had 
become  firm  and  even  intimate  friends;  for  Skeffington 
had  a  very  clear  perception,  and  he  was  entirely  free  from 
that  conventional  breeding  which  Stephen  disliked  so 
much.  Also,  he  had  his  own  point  of  view,  and  he 
acted  as  a  tonic  to  Stephen,  who,  from  long  solitude,  was 
inclined  to  be  immovable.  In  addition  to  the  kind  affec- 
tion which  David  felt,  Skeffington  had  the  novelist's 
powerful  moral  prepossessions ;  and  where  David  on  the 
whole  preferred  to  allow  Stephen's  attitude  to  go  un- 
challenged (rarely  arguing  with  him,  but  merely  as  it 
were  collecting  and  supplementing  his  views)  Skeffing- 
ton raised  his  own  standard  and  raked  Stephen's  prin- 
ciples with  a  hot  fire  of  merriment.  The  fact  that  they 
thought  much  alike  made  their  differences  the  more 
piquant;  and  the  differences  themselves  increased  their 
friendship.  Stephen  could  not  easily  refer  to  his  affec- 
tions; but  Skeffington,  with  much  greater  savoir-faire, 
made  no  secret  of  his.  Likes  and  dislikes  he  expressed 
freely,  but  so  lightly  that  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  nobody 
mentally  accused  him  of  malice.    Of  malice  he  had  none 


DANGER  345 

— only  a  quick  judgment,  a  ready  tongue,  and  a  fund 
of  eager  nonsense. 

They  lay  in  the  shadow  of  a  tall  bush,  so  thick  that  the 
sun  could  penetrate  its  interstices  only  at  rare  points.  A 
little  breeze  fluttered  idly  above  them,  but  so  fitfully  as 
to  be  hardly  noticeable.  They  were  looking  down  a  hill, 
and  the  view  before  them  was  of  more  bushes,  and  hedges, 
and  then  fields  barely  broken  by  houses,  until  a  number 
of  villas,  very  new,  but  not  as  ugly  as  they  might  have 
been,  shared  the  view  with  its  other,  more  lovely,  beauties. 
Skeffington  was  sending  thin  blue  spirals  of  smoke  from 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  luxuriating  in  complete  ease. 

"Fortunate  fellows  we  are!"  he  observed.  "If  we 
only  knew  it." 

"Being  here,  you  mean?"  Stephen  asked.  "Or  any- 
how?" 

"Both.  And  being  able  to  keep  quiet,  too.  Not  that 
I'm  doing  it.  I  say,  that  chap  Badoureau's  a  rum  un, 
isn't  he !" 

Stephen  was  conscious  of  a  thrill  at  the  name  and  at 
the  tone.  He  changed  his  position,  so  as  to  rest  upon 
the  other  elbow,  whereby  he  was  able  to  see  Skeffington's 
face.  Skeffington  also  moved;  but  that  was  because  he 
had  put  his  hands  behind  his  head,  which  he  thus  sup- 
ported just  sufficiently  to  continue  his  smoking  without 
inconvenience.  He  was  looking  up  in  the  air,  where, 
amid  the  blue,  he  saw  through  his  little  glasses  what 
seemed  to  be  a  continuous  atmospheric  movement  before 
his  eyes. 

"Badoureau,"  said  Stephen.  "Is  he?"  He  tried  to 
make  his  voice  indifferent — with  what  success  he  could 
not  tell. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  It  was  clear  that  Skeffington 
was  not  to  be  bounced. 

"I  don't  like  him  very  much,"  admitted  Stephen, 
curtly.      "In    fact   I   dislike  him.      But  apart   from  his 


346  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

arrogance  I  don't  know  anything  .  .  .  He's  a  very  bad, 
conventional  thinker." 

"Yes,  that's  the  tradition,  of  course.  He's  coming 
to  tea  with  me  to-day.  I  baked  this  morning,  so  I  shall 
give  him  some  of  my  little  cakes;  but  it's  a  bore.  I'm 
not  interested  in  him.  He's  not  interesting.  He'll  be 
cheerful  enough,  I  expect." 

"I  thought  the  Evandines  liked  him — found  him 
interesting,"  said  Stephen,  vaguely.  It  was  not  by  any 
very  genuine  impulse  that  he  thus  momentarily  ranged 
himself  as  a  defender  of  Hilary. 

Neither  spoke  for  several  minutes,  but  both  continued 
to  smoke  and  to  gaze  upon  the  scene  without  for  a  mo- 
ment paying  any  conscious  attention  to  it. 

"Funny  little  cat  that  is  of  yours,"  Skeffington  went 
on,  after  a  long  pause.  "He's  developed  a  great  feeling 
of  friendship  for  me.  Something  like  Badoureau,  in 
fact;  though  I  prefer  Romeo.  Romeo  doesn't  like  my 
singing.  It's  painful  to  him.  You  don't  like  it  much 
yourself.  ...  If  I  whistle,  he  miaws  in  protest.  .  .  . 
He's  like  a  child." 

Stephen  puffed  away  for  a  little  while,  meditatively. 

"You  know  Badoureau  pretty  well,  don't  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh,"  said  Skeffington,  "I've  known  him  for  some 
time.  He's  taken  lately  to  coming  to  see  me;  but  that's 
a  new  habit.  .  .  .  We  haven't  any  intimacy." 

Stephen's  teeth  closed  more  firmly  upon  the  stem  of 
his  pipe.  He  read  into  Skeffington's  words  a  warning 
to  himself.  Sluggishly  in  his  brain  were  running  many 
thoughts,  all  bidding  him  beware  of  Badoureau.  He 
would  have  ignored  them  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  present 
difficult  relation  with  Priscilla.  That  relation,  and  the 
knowledge  that  he  purposed  still  further  taxing  Priscilla's 
generosity  by  mentioning  his  visit  to  Minnie,  and  his 
desire  that  she  should  see  Minnie,  made  every  thought 


DANGER  347 

of  Hilary  one  of  burning  trouble.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
enabled  to  answer  as  though  he  could  afford  to  ignore 
danger  from  Hilary. 

"He  comes  pretty  often  to  see  us,"  Stephen  said 
casually. 

"Yes.  What  do  you  talk  about?"  A  smile  curved 
Skeffington's  lips.  Other  people,  seeing  him  smile,  gen- 
erally began  to  smile  also,  which  was  a  very  pleasant 
fact  in  his  life. 

Stephen  thought  solemnly. 

"He  brings  us  the  news  of  the  beau  monde,  I  think," 
he  said  at  length.  "Galleries,  and  music,  and  so  on.  .  .  . 
As  a  matter  of  fact  I  don't  listen  to  him." 

"Why  don't  you  see  those  things  for  yourself  ?"  Skef- 
fington  suddenly  inquired,  with  a  criticism  in  his  voice. 
"You  ought  to.  It's  not  fair  on  Mrs.  Moore.  .  .  .  You 
ought  to  run  about  a  bit." 

Stephen's  heart  seemed  to  begin  to  beat  in  his  throat. 
He  moved  restlessly  upon  the  grass. 

"I've  thought  of  that,"  he  admitted.  "I  thought  of 
that  more  than  a  year  ago.  I  don't  think  she  wants 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  you  don't,"  said  Skeffington, 
with  a  smile.  "I  was  only  thinking  of  Badoureau  as  a 
privileged  purveyor.  It  would  do  you  good  to  nose 
about  a  bit.  You  see,  Moore,  you've  got  a  lot  to  learn. 
We  all  have,  more  or  less.  Even  I.  Even  the  perfectly 
informed  David  Evandine.  By  the  way,  I  should  like 
very  much  to  see  how  far  your  sister  will  modify  his 
general  omniscience.  It  won't  be  perceptible,  of  course. 
No,  Moore :  the  fact  is,  you're  an  innocent.  So's  Badou- 
reau. But  you're  a  man  with  brains.  He  isn't.  Though 
you  wouldn't  think  so,  that's  a  vital  difference."  He 
turned  his  head  sharply  at  that,  and  glanced  shrewdly 
at  his  friend.  "But  I  expect  you  exaggerate  it  already," 
he  added  coolly. 


348  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"I'm  generally  supposed  to,"  answered  Stephen,  with 
equal  coolness;  "though  in  point  of  fact  I  don't." 

"Badoureau's  got  a  mind  like  a  mud  bank.  You  throw 
a  stone  into  it,  and  nothing  happens.  The  stone  stays 
exactly — absolutely — where  it  falls.  It  doesn't  crystallize 
or  dissolve ;  it  stays  there  like  a  nugget.  And  I  suppose 
some  time  or  other  gets  washed  out  again."  Skeffington 
paused.  He  was  speaking  quite  cheerfully,  and  without 
venom;  as  though  stating  a  simple  fact.  "He's  a  very 
very  typical  young  man  of  his  class — correctly  educated, 
with  all  the  hard,  unimaginative  self -righteousness  of  the 
Churchman,  and  the  intelligent  mediocrity  of  the  civil 
servant.  He's  for  Church  and  State — not  God  and  man. 
.  .  .  It's  a  vital  difference,  Moore!" 

"Is  it?"  said  Stephen  dourly.  "All  this  doesn't  touch 
my  feeling  about  Badoureau." 

"What's  that,  then?  Yours  is  only  indifference, 
perhaps?" 

"No,  no.  It's  a  resentment.  I  think  he's  arrogant. 
I  think  he's  typical  of  a  class,  perhaps." 

"Yes,  I  think  that.  Certainly.  You  see,  he's  never 
done  anything." 

"I  suppose  not.  I  think  of  him  as  an  Empire-builder 
wasted.  I  should  have  thought  he  might  do  something 
in  a  few  years.  Unfortunately  he  seems  to  have  too  much 
money." 

"I  don't  think  he'll  ever  do  anything,  except  be  a 
sport,  a  regular  good  fellow,  a  ladies'  man,  and  a  good 
Rugby  footballer — I  must  admit  he  can  play  football; 
but  only  because  of  his  weight  and  his  speed.  And  what 
does  that  mean?  When  he's  thirty  he'll  be  a  veteran: 
he'll  have  lost  his  speed.  And  where  is  he?  I  ought 
to  have  said  that  of  course  he's  a  dilettante.  He  can 
talk  about  Giotto  and  the  Siennese  school;  and  he  likes 
Cesar  Franck,  and  can  tell  you  what's  the  matter  with 
the  modern  English  composers.     But  what's  the  good  of 


DANGER  349 

that?  He  only  tells  you  what  everybody  else  tells  you. 
There's  nothing  original  in  it.  He's  simply  a  product! 
And  that  means  he'll  go  through  life  a  shallow,  unimagi- 
native, selfish  creature,  rather  fine  and  mysterious  in 
his  insensitiveness,  the  type  English  people  most  admire ; 
but  quite  unteachable  except  by  some  such  bastard 
abstract  idea  as  Empire  or  Honour.  That's  not  my 
ideal,  nor  yours.  We  want  good  men,  modest  men,  wise 
men ;  not  these  swaggering  hounds  that  push  everywhere 
because  they're  too  stupid  to  understand  anything  but 
physical  prefulgence  or  absolute  social  convention. 
Damn !     My  pipe's  gone  out." 

"So  I  should  think,"  said  Stephen.  "And  I  must 
say  that  I  don't  think  you'd  get  many  people  to  agree 
with  you,  either  about  the  type  or  about  Badoureau.  Of 
course    I  see  there's  something  in  it — or  feel  there  is." 

"Well,  I'm  right,  for  all  that,"  said  Skeffington,  lazily. 
"Now,  about  Badoureau.  It's  a  curious  thing  that  the 
only  person  who's  really  seen  through  him  all  the  time 
is  Mrs.  Evandine." 

"Oh,  you  think  that,"  said  Stephen,  slowly. 

"I  know  it.     So  do  you." 

"I  thought  it,  certainly.  But  you  seem  to  know  Mrs. 
Evandine  more  intimately  than  I  do." 

"No.  I've  been  there  several  times  lately  when  he's 
been  there.  I'm  in  the  habit  of  noticing  things.  And 
it's  remarkable  that  I  always  prefer  to  notice  people 
who  are  in  the  background.  You  learn  more.  It's  much 
more  instructive  than  watching  the  protagonists.  Now 
Mrs.  Evandine  is  in  every  way  admirable." 

"Certainly.  Wonderful."  Stephen  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment. "One  thing  that  strikes  me,  Skefiington,  is — 
why  on  earth  do  you  keep  up  a  sort  of  friendship  with 
Badoureau?" 

"Without  quarrelling  with  him  I  can't  break  it  off. 
Mind  you,  I'd  tell  him  what  I've  told  you  except  that 


350  THE  CHASTE  "WIFE 

I  don't  know  him  well  enough  to  be  candid.  I'm  sick  of 
the  fellow.  He  haunts  me.  I've  had  him  two  or  three 
times  a  week  for  the  last  six  weeks.  .  .  ." 

"Auch !"  cried  Stephen  in  disgust.  How  many  times, 
then,  had  Hilary  seen  Priscilla?  And  if  she  was  seeing 
him,  why  did  she  not  say?  "I  say,  I  .  .  .  can't  stay 
here  any  longer  ...  I  feel  as  though  my  bones  were 
broken.  Let's  walk  a  little."  He  stumbled  to  his  feet. 
If  she  were  seeing  Badoureau,  why  on  earth  .  .  .  why 
on  earth  ...  As  he  set  a  match  to  his  pipe  his  hands 
were  shaking.  He  was  filled  with  consternation.  How 
many  times  had  Badoureau  been  to  the  cottage?  He 
had  been  to  Skeffrngton's  two  or  three  times  a  week.  .  .  . 
He  had  been  at  Totteridge — he  had  gone  to  Totteridge 
thinking  she  would  be  there.  It  was  clear.  ...  It  was 
clear.  Stephen  doubted  not  that  Hilary  loved  Priscilla. 
His  thought  would  go  no  further  than  that.  He  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  Priscilla  .  .  . 

"Here — here — here!"  cried  Skeffington.  "Second 
speed,  old  chap!  I'm  not  a  racing  car!"  Together  they 
walked  across  the  Heath,  but  Stephen  answered  at  ran- 
dom to  everything  his  companion  said. 


in 

Skeffington  was  engaged  in  praising  Mrs.  Evandine. 
For  the  moment  he  was  full  of  enthusiasm  for  her  as  for 
one  whose  stored  and  inexhaustible  riches  of  wisdom 
might  still  be  appreciated  solitarily  by  himself.  With  a 
naive  delight  in  his  own  perceptiveness,  he  acclaimed 
Mrs.  Evandine.  In  her  he  found  a  reality  of  knowledge 
greater  even  that  that  possessed  by  her  daughter,  for 
whom  also  his  admiration  was  genuine. 

"It  needs  a  man  like  myself,"  he  was  saying,  with  a 
return  to  his  customary  egotistical  method,  "to  appreciate 
the  fineness  of  Mrs.  Evandine.    Henry  James  is  the  one 


DANGER  351 

man  who  understands  these  larger  things  better  than  I 
do;  and  he'd  simply  dote  on  Mrs.  Evandine.  You  may- 
say — and  I  won't  altogether  contradict  you,  though  I'd 
admit  it  was  an  extreme  statement — you  may  say  he'd 
see  more  than  is  there.  That  may  be  so.  But  I  see  the 
fact.  I  delight  in  the  illustration.  What  more?  I'm 
not  talking  of  writing  round  her.  All  I  do  is  to  observe. 
I  tell  you,  Moore,  Mrs.  Evandine  is  absolutely  the  most 
remarkable  woman  I  ever  met.  I  commend  her  to  you. 
You'll  find  ...  Of  course  you  know  that  she's  your 
friend?  Her  account  of  you  is  quite  perfect.  ...  I  tell 
you  this,  also :  that  if  I  were  in  a  difficulty  I'd  go  to 
Mrs.  Evandine.     Do  your  hear  that?" 

Stephen  disengaged  himself  from  the  flurry  of  his 
perturbation. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked.  Then,  recovering  the 
words  from  his  unconscious  memory,  he  repeated  them : 
"If  I  were  in  a  difficulty  I'd  go  to  Mrs.  Evandine.  Was 
that  it?" 

"It  was  so.     Remember !" 

Stephen  turned  the  words  in  his  mind  reflectively.  For 
a  moment  he  could  not  consider  them.  Then,  with  an 
effort,  he  brought  his  attention  to  bear  upon  their  mean- 
ing. In  a  difficulty.  .  .  .  Was  he  not  in  a  difficulty? 
Mrs.  Evandine?  A  warm  memory  of  that  lady  as  he 
had  last  seen  her  in  the  doorway  at  Stalcett  came 
into  his  mind.  His  expression  changed.  It  lightened. 
He  looked  aside  at  Skeffington  as  upon  one  who 
had  brought  good  tidjngs,  half  smiling  in  spite  of  his 
anxiety. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  willingly.  "I  think  you're  quite  right. 
Quite  right." 

iv 

But  although  he  spoke  with  such  conviction  Stephen 
soon    returned   to   his   miserable   contemplation    of   the 


352  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

threatened  clanger.  Was  he  so  sure  that  there  was  a 
danger?  He  certainly  at  this  time  had  no  distrust  of 
Priscilla.  All  he  thought  was  that  she  might  unwit- 
tingly be  allowing  herself  to  slip  into  indiscretion,  driven 
thither  without  reflection  by  her  bewildered  distress.  Of 
Hilary's  feeling,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  no  doubt. 
Every  recollection  of  Hilary's  behaviour  to  him  showed 
Stephen  that  Hilary  was  his  implacable  opponent,  and 
that  Hilary  was  a  man  who  set  his  own  wish  before 
every  other  consideration.  It  was  a  part  of  his  dislike 
of  Hilary  that  he  saw  this  opponent  so  ruthless  in  the 
pursuit  of  his  desire.  Stephen's  attitude  was  antago- 
nistic :  he  most  desired  the  happiness  of  those  he  loved. 
It  was  by  an  irony  that  he  should,  in  spite  of  this  will,  be 
an  instrument  to  bring  unhappiness  where  he  most  wished 
its  opposite.  Scruples  beset  him  at  every  point :  only 
resolute  determination  to  work  for  his  aim  made  those 
scruples  impotent.  If  he  were  to  fail,  if  at  any  point  he 
should  lose  heart,  then  his  scruples,  like  those  jackals  in 
the  tale,  which  waited  without  the  eremite's  cell  ready  to 
rush  in  and  devour  him  whensoever  he  succumbed  to  evil 
temptation,  would  be  overwhelming.  Then  they  would 
fall  upon  his  will  and  paralyse  it,  so  that  Stephen  would 
become  like  any  other  battered  idealist.  But  this  doleful 
possibility  was  not  yet.  Will  for  will  he  could  yet  beat 
Hilary,  so  long  as  he  should  not  be  betrayed  by  circum- 
stance. His  problems  remained  unsolved,  as  they  had 
been  more  than  a  year  before — Roy,  Minnie,  Priscilla. 
Only  Dorothy,  by  the  interposition  of  another  force,  and 
by  no  direct  result  of  any  action  of  Stephen's,  had  won 
the  first  stage  to  freedom.  The  old  man  was  still  to  be 
finally  overthrown,  though  his  end  seemed  to  be,  and 
in  fact  was,  in  sight. 

What  wonder,  therefore,  that  Stephen,  whose  other 
difficulties  might  be  said  to  have  reached  their  climax, 
found   this   dangerous   and   baffling   diversion   a   thing 


DANGER  353 

almost  past  bearing?  If  he  lost  Priscilla  to  another  man 
— her  love,  that  is  to  say — there  would  be  nothing  for 
him  but  disaster.  He  did  not  trust  Hilary.  He  did  not 
recognize  his  code  of  manners.  Was  his  code  of  morals 
equally  untrustworthy?  Only  by  putting  out  a  hand  to 
detain  his  friend  did  Skeffington  continue  really  to  walk 
in  his  company !  And  how  much  did  Skeffington  know, 
or  guess?  How  much  did  he  understand?  To  Stephen 
this  hitherto  unclouded  afternoon  had  become  like  a 
hideous  dream — converted  in  an  instant  by  a  single, 
seemingly  innocent,  statement  of  fact.  How  unhappy  he 
was !  As  ever,  his  unhappiness  lay  in  uncertainty,  for 
armed  with  knowledge  he  was  cap-a-pie  for  combat. 


CHAPTER  XXIV:  THE  DANGER  UNMASKED 


WHEN  Stephen  returned  from  his  walk  with 
Skeffington  Roy  was  with  Priscilla,  and  Irene 
was  bringing  in  the  tea.  Romeo,  sitting  in  an  arm-chair 
supposed  to  be  Stephen's,  was  smiling  at  the  world  and 
daintily  washing  his  toes.  For  Romeo  this  operation 
presented  no  difficulties.  He  put  his  paw  out  as  does  the 
newly  engaged  girl  when  she  wears  her  ring  for  the  first 
time,  spreading  her  fingers  apart.  He  then  raised  his 
paw  with  the  most  graceful  of  gestures  and  presented  it 
to  his  mouth.  Thenceforward  Romeo's  every  lithe 
richly  coloured  movement  was  a  delight  to  the  eye,  and 
his  exquisitely  pink  tongue  seemed  to  represent  the  quin- 
tessence of  his  nature. 

Roy  sat  in  a  similar  arm-chair  rather  sheepishly  watch- 
ing Romeo.  The  few  days  he  had  spent  at  Hampstead 
had  done  him  a  great  deal  of  good.  For  one  thing  he 
was  recovering  some  of  his  self-respect  through  the 
behaviour  of  Priscilla  and  Stephen.  For  another  he  was 
rid  of  the  almost  intolerable  dread  with  which  his  first 
experiment  in  illegitimate  money-getting  had  poisoned 
his  recent  days.  That  was  over,  like  a  bad  dream.  The 
raw  ugliness  of  Emerald,  with  her  early  mature  material- 
istic horse-sense,  was  seen  by  him  with  such  exactitude 
that  he  marvelled  at  his  dead  infatuation.  It  had  been 
the  result  of  an  impulse  which  he  had  called  "swank": 
in  an  atmosphere  where  "swank"  did  not  appear  to  be 
a  necessity,  where,  in  fact,  he  discerned  nothing  but  peace 
(so  inscrutable  are  the  manners  of  men  and  women),  he 
had  become  a  boy  again.  In  a  few  days  more  he  would 
make  up  his  mind  that  he  must  begin  to  work ;  and  then, 
with  good  fortune,  Stephen  thought  that  he  could  not 

354 


THE  DANGER  UNMASKED  355 

cease  growing  until  he  became  a  man.  Stephen,  con- 
sulted, would  have  attributed  the  change  entirely  to  the 
influence  of  Priscilla.  He  regarded  that  as  a  sovran 
cure  for  all  base  impulses. 


That  was  the  feeling  that  made  Stephen  still  keep  his 
head  in  spite  of  all.  He  loved  Priscilla  above  all  things. 
So  he  too,  entering  this  pretty  room  with  its  sparse  furni- 
ture, found  the  atmosphere  reassuring.  The  fever  which 
had  lately  possessed  him  sank  to  an  undercurrent.  His 
pleasure  at  seeing  Priscilla  there,  in  a  very  simple  dress 
of  blue  linen,  with  her  delicate  fair  face  and  fair  hair 
looking  so  adorable,  was  intense.  Nothing  whatever 
could  rob  him  of  that  delight.  Her  clear  eyes,  her  in- 
describably candid  manner,  her  small  head,  her  grace, 
all  these  moved  him  deeply.  All  were  a  part  of  his 
vision  of  her.  And  Priscilla's  sober  greeting — a  glance 
and  no  more — filled  him  with  pride.  He  looked  from 
one  to  the  other,  until  his  eye  rested  upon  Romeo,  who 
had  thrown  himself  upon  his  side  and  now  looked  coquet- 
tishly  at  the  new-comer.  Romeo  knew  very  well  that  he 
was  on  Stephen's  chair.  Not  in  vain  had  he  whimsically 
studied  comfort  during  the  whole  of  his  short  and  nimble 
life.  Stephen,  however,  upon  this  occasion  ignored 
Romeo's  ingratiating  gestures.  He  happened  not  to 
want  his  chair.     Instead,  he  turned  to  Roy. 

"Have  you  been  in,  this  afternoon?"  he  inquired.  "Or 
out?     It's  been  particularly  fine." 

"Er  .  .  .  Priscilla  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  and  I  went  out  for 
a  walk,"  answered  Roy,  still  a  little  conscious  at  the  use 
of  his  sister-in-law's  name.  "We  went  down  to  the 
cricket  ground,"  he  added  more  cheerfully.  "It's  the 
cricket  week;  and  they  were  playing  some  crack  team — 
Hornsey,  or  Southgate,  or  somebody.    Jolly  line,  it  was." 


356  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

He  made  a  further  start.  "Hampstead  batted  all  the 
time  we  were  there  .  .  .  didn't  they!"  He  appealed  to 
Priscilla. 

"That's  what  the  man  told  you,"  said  Priscilla,  smiling. 
"The  man  with  the  dog." 

"So  it  might  have  been  Hornsey  or  Southgate  really," 
suggested  Stephen. 

"Anyway,  they  batted  splendidly.  I  think  it  was 
Hampstead.  And  we  met  Mr.  Badoureau  there,"  said 
Roy  innocently.  "He  wished  he  was  playing.  He  played 
in  his  college  team,  but  he  says  he  wasn't  good  enough 
for  the  first-class  matches.  .  .  ." 

Priscilla  saw  that  Stephen's  face  went  white. 


in 

Irene  had  clambered  out  of  the  room  again,  breathing 
hard,  and  looking  "perfectly  globular,"  as  Dorothy  said. 
Dorothy's  idea  was  that  Irene  was  all  curves,  and  opulent 
curves  at  that.  She  was  very  young,  and  very  strong 
indeed — as  strong  as  a  horse;  but  youth  and  strength 
were  not  yet  disciplined,  so  to  speak,  to  the  table.  She 
either  breathed  very  loud,  or  held  her  breath  with  startling 
results.  When  she  held  her  breath  her  cheeks  grew 
crimson  and  her  eyes  rolled  and  seemed  to  burst  from  her 
head.  She  always  held  her  breath  when  talking  to 
Stephen,  as  a  result  of  extreme  fear  of  him,  as  though 
she  thought  he  might  snap  her  up,  or  bite  her;  and  her 
voice  always  at  that  moment  disappeared.  She  became 
perfectly  inaudible,  and  would  come  closer  and  closer  to 
him,  her  eyes  gaping.  She  had  a  secret  passion  for  him, 
an  awed  respect  that  was  almost  religious.  For  Stephen 
she  had  this  feeling;  for  Priscilla  a  protective  pity  allied 
to  adoring  marvel  at  one  so  incomparably  beautiful.  But 
that  did  not  prevent  Irene  from  bringing  a  small  bundle 
in  the  morning  and  taking  a  large  bundle  away  with  her 


THE  DANGER  UNMASKED  357 

at  night.  She  was  a  mushroom,  as  Romeo  was  a  little 
cat.  Nothing  more  need  be  said.  You  cannot  change  a 
mushroom's  spots. 

When  Irene  had  gone,  shutting  the  door — as  she 
usually  did,  through  a  miscalculation  both  of  strength  and 
distance — with  a  loud  bang,  Priscilla  sat  before  the  teapot 
and  motioned  Roy  to  his  place.  Stephen  mechanically 
came  to  the  table,  and  listlessly  received  his  cup. 

"Roy  very  much  wanted  to  see  the  cricket,"  Priscilla 
said,  in  a  moment.  "You  only  heard  of  these  matches 
this  morning,  didn't  you,  Roy?" 

"No,"  said  the  artless  Roy.  "Yesterday  Mr.  Badou- 
reau  was  talking  to  me  about  them.  He  said  I  ought  to 
go.  .  .  .  He  said  you  might  like  to  see  one  for  an  hour 
or  so.     That's  why  I  suggested  it." 

Priscilla  and  Stephen  exchanged  a  long,  steady  glance 
— upon  both  sides  a  troubled  one.  Then  Stephen  abruptly 
changed  the  subject  by  saying: 

"When  shall  we  see  Dorothy  again?  Will  she  come 
soon?" 

Priscilla  was  puzzled  at  the  change,  however  welcome 
it  may  have  been.  She  answered  him,  and  then  went 
on  with  her  tea.  In  the  next  cottage  they  heard  voices, 
as  was  very  often  the  case  when  Skeffington  had  a  visitor, 
since  the  walls  were  so  extremely  thin. 

"I  bet  that's  Mr.  Badoureau,"  said  Roy,  with  a  finger 
in  the  air. 

"Very  likely,"  admitted  Stephen,  coldly  and  dryly.  "I 
believe  he's  very  fond  of  coming  to  see  Skeffington." 
This  time  he  did  not  look  up;  but  put  a  small  piece  of 
cake  carefully  into  his  mouth.  Roy  seemed  to  have 
nothing  more  to  say,  except : 

"I  pumice-stoned  my  fingers  this  morning.  Better, 
aren't  they!" 

''Much  better,"  agreed  Stephen,  with  a  grave  glance. 
"They're  getting  on  splendidly." 


358  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 


IV 


When  Roy  had  gone  to  bed  that  night,  Priscilla  and 
Stephen  sat  a  little  while  together.  Both  would  have 
liked  to  speak:  both  found  it  hard  to  do  so.  When 
Stephen  began  at  last,  with  a  great  effort,  Priscilla, 
though  her  heart  beat  faster,  welcomed  the  words.  Any- 
thing was  better  than  silence. 

"Does  Badoureau  come  here  a  good  deal?"  he  asked 
abruptly.  His  own  heart  was  beating  hard.  Priscilla's 
eyes  were  dark;  her  voice  trembled  faintly. 

"When  you're  not  here?  He's  been  several  times  to 
tea,"  she  answered.  "He's  in  this  neighbourhood  a  good 
deal.  .  .  .  He  goes  to  see  Mr.  Skeffington.  .  .  ." 

"I  know.  I  got  just  a  little  uncomfortable.  .  .  .  You 
know  I  don't  want  to  make  you  uncomfortable,  too; 
but  when  I  brought  Roy  home  he  was  here,  and  ...  I 
suppose  he's  quite  straight?" 

Priscilla  sat  looking  at  him  with  a  very  curious — sadly 
smiling — expression  upon  her  face. 

"I've  known  him  for  several  years.  He's  David's 
friend,  and  mine.  He  can  be  very  rude ;  but  I  think  he's 
very  honest,"  she  said.  "And  I've  been  rather  glad  to 
see  anybody  lately." 

Stephen  was  struck  by  her  tone.  His  first  base  thought 
was  that  she  was  remembering  Minnie  and  thinking  that 
he  had  no  right  to  be  censorious. 

"My  dearest,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I  wasn't  thinking 
that — never  that.  It  did  occur  to  me  that  he  might  be 
being  a  nuisance.  If  you  had  said  anything  about  him 
to  me  .  .  .  But  I  know  that  we  haven't  had  .  .  .  we've 
not  been  talking  much  lately  about  ourselves." 

"No,"  said  Priscilla,  still  with  that  sober  smile  flitting 
upon  her  lips. 

"Did  you  like  the  cricket  this  afternoon?" 


THE  DANGER  UNMASKED  359 

Priscilla  gave  a  miserable  dry  little  laugh.  She  thought 
his  change  altogether  too  abrupt. 

"No,  Stephen,"  she  said;  "don't  let's  talk  about  the 
cricket.  There's  so  much  else  to  talk  about.  Do  you 
really  feel  uncomfortable  because  Hilary  sometimes 
comes  to  tea?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  these  things.  I  want 
you  to  do  whatever  you  like.  It  wasn't  anything  of  that 
sort  I  meant ;  but  I've  seen  him  or  heard  of  him  several 
times;  and  Skeffington  seems  to  have  him  there  a  good 
deal.  He  seems  to  have  nothing  to  do.  He  doesn't  live 
in  Hampstead;  yet  he's  always  about.  And  he  doesn't 
come  when  I'm  here." 

"Stephen !"     Her  cry  was  urgent. 

"He  doesn't  like  me.  He's  jealous  of  me,  just  as  I'm 
jealous  of  him." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him?"  Priscilla  eagerly  questioned. 

"Only  because  he's  got  so  much  that  I  haven't  got. 
I  wonder  .  .  .  It's  wrong,  I  know;  but  I  suppose  I'm 
conscious  of  being  his  inferior  in  physique,  and  education, 
and  manner.     Is  that  very  pretty?" 

"Stephen,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  this.  Are  you  afraid 
of  him?" 

Stephen  looked  straight  at  her. 

"As  a  man,"  he  answered,  "no !    As  a  lover — yes !" 

Priscilla  sat  for  a  moment  as  though  she  were  stunned 
by  his  words.  Her  hands  were  still  clasped  in  her  lap, 
as  they  had  been  all  the  time,  and  they  did  not  now 
move. 

"Oh,  Stephen !"  she  said,  in  a  breathless  way.  "Has 
it  really  come  to  this?" 


Stephen  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  thought  they 
were  heading  direct  for  a  misunderstanding;  and  that 
was  the  last  thing  he  could  afford  to  risk.     At  all  costs, 


360  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

even  at  a  sacrifice  of  this  moment  of  opportunity,  it  must 
be  avoided. 

"I  wish  we  didn't  always  get  so  shaky  when  we  talk 
like  this,"  he  said  at  last.  "It  puts  us  both  on  edge.  I 
expect  I've  given  you  a  wrong  impression.  It's  come 
to  nothing.  Nothing.  Except  that  I  love  you  and  that 
you've  been  punished  for  my  fault.  Very  likely  the  fact 
that  I'm  in  the  wrong  is  always  rankling.  That  may 
account  for  everything  I  feel.  Don't  think  for  a  moment 
that  I'm  afraid  of  anything  Badoureau  can  do  to  me.  'In 
that  sense  I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  him.  My  dear, 
'  you  know  that.  Don't  you  ?"  She  shook  her  head  sadly. 
"Not  even  that?  Well,  we  are  in  a  mess!"  For  an 
instant  his  heart  was  leaden.  He  hesitated,  in  extremest 
fear.  Then  he  plunged.  "Let  me  say — let  me  say  all 
I've  got  in  my  mind — nothing  kept  back.  That's  best, 
even  if  it  hurts.  And  it's  not  what  I  started  with — it's 
what's  there  at  this  instant,  after  what  we've  been  say- 
ing. Is  it  possible  that  you've  been  glad  to  see  him,  and 
have  got  a  lot  of  good  from  seeing  him  (because  you're 
feeling  rather  wretched)  ;  and  that  he's  .  .  .  well,  not 
misunderstood  ...  but  allowed  himself  to  .  .  .  per- 
haps to  revive  ...  a  ...  an  old  feeling?"  Why 
couldn't  he  say  right  out  "Badoureau's  in  love  with  you, 
and  I  hate  him  for  it"  ? 

Priscilla  had  listened  with  a  strained  attention.  Now 
she  slipped  from  her  chair  and  came  to  his  side,  kneeling 
there  as  she  had  done  in  their  happy  days.  She  too  made 
her  effort  to  preserve  their  mutual  confidence. 

"You  do  love  me?"  she  asked.  "And  I  think  you 
trust  me?" 

"Absolutely,"  Stephen  said  in  a  firm  voice.  Priscilla 
laughed  again;  but  this  time  naturally,  though  the  laugh 
was  not  very  cheerful. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  strange,"  she  mused,  "to  think  of 
our  talking  like  this?     It's  horrible,  too,  Stephen.     And 


THE  DANGER  UNMASKED  361 

all  because — you'd  say  because  I've  been  too  exacting, 
because  I'm  ignorant — innocent  in  a  bad  sense?" 

Stephen  slipped  his  arm  round  her  shoulders,  and  she 
made  no  resistance,  though  she  did  not  further  yield 
herself. 

"It's  I  who  am  wrong,"  he  asserted.  "I  know  it;  but 
I  can't  help  it.  I  began  wrong  and  I'm  going  further 
and  further  wrong.  If  you  want  to  see  Badoureau,  see 
him.  But  I  think  it's  a  danger.  You'll  see  that  for 
yourself.  Because  it's  confirming  you  in  your  estrange- 
ment from  me." 

"No !"  she  cried  impetuously. 

"I  think  so.  You  get  something  from  him — admira- 
tion, or  sympathy.  .  .  .  Something.  .  .  .  You  look  to 
him  for  it.    That's  bound  to  take  you  away  from  me." 

Priscilla  moved  restlessly,  so  that  he  dropped  his  arm. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  that,"  she  said  in  a  very  low 
voice.     "It's  quite  untrue." 

"You  don't  think  about  it.  But  in  a  few  weeks  you'll 
find  yourself  drifted.  .  .  ." 

Priscilla  turned  to  him.  She  laid  her  hands  upon  his 
knees. 

"Before  .  .  ."  she  said.     "For  three  years.  .  .  ." 

"I  hadn't  injured  you.  You  were  thinking  of  me — 
loving  me.  Now,  the  situation  is  different.  As  long  as 
you  wholly  trusted  me,  he  was  powerless.  But  now  he's 
gone  through  all  the  fire  of  seeing  you  married  to  me,  he 
suddenly  finds  you  turning  to  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  think 
you're  unwise,  Priscilla!  You  don't  know  how  things 
drift  when  you're  unhappy.     Think  of  me " 

"Oh !"  cried  Priscilla  in  abhorrence.  "That's  wholly 
different.     You  don't  think " 

"It's  only  different  because  you're  different,  my  dearest. 
Only  that.  Think.  There  was  an  unhappy  girl,  an 
unhappy  man.     Here " 

"Really,    Stephen !"     Priscilla    protested    again.     She 


362  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

half  rose  to  her  feet.  "It's  no  good!  It's  no  good!  I 
can't  bear  to  go  on  talking  like  this." 

"If  you  were  to  see  Minnie  .  .  ."  he  began,  and 
stopped.     He  had  taken  her  hand. 

"Stephen !" 

"I  should  like  you  to.    Do  you  want  to  love  me?" 

With  a  groan,  Priscilla  turned  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

"Do  you  really  think  I  don't  love  you?"  she  asked  in 
horror.  "Why,  my  dearest,  it's  because  I  love  you  that 
I'm  unhappy.  I'm  unhappy  because  I  feel  I'm  treating 
you  cruelly — being  somehow  ridiculous.  ...  It  humili- 
ates me.  And  now  ...  to  suggest  such  a  comparison! 
It's  outrageous!" 

Slowly  Stephen  shook  his  head,  and  held  her  tightly 
against  him. 

"So  you've  got  no  further  than  that?"  he  asked  in  a 
dead  voice.     "Are  you  really  only  being  priggish?" 

"You  think  that?"  she  breathed. 

"If  I  begged  you  to  see  her?" 

Priscilla  remained  silent  for  a  space.  The  life  seemed 
gone  out  of  her  body. 

"What  good  would  that  do  ?"  she  asked. 

"I've  put  all  my  hope  in  it.  Either  you'll  drift  away, 
or  you'll  drift  back  to  me — unless  you  try  really  to  under- 
stand me,  and  to  understand  Minnie.  I  want  you  to 
feel  that  you  understand  me.  That's  all.  It  may  make 
you  detest  me.  I'd  take  the  risk  of  that.  All  I  want  is 
that  you  should  know  all  the  facts." 

"Very  well,"  said  Priscilla.  Her  tone  was  dubious; 
but  she  was  surprised  at  her  own  composure.  How 
strange  that  the  proposal  no  longer  lacerated  her  beating 
heart.     "I'll  think  about  it." 

"She's  left  her  husband — a  real  scoundrel.  A  real 
scoundrel.  She's  trying  to  make  money  by  machining 
cotton  shirts.     Roy  told  me  so.     I  went  to  see  her " 


THE  DANGER  UNMASKED  363 

"You  went !  You  didn't  tell  me !"  Her  tone  was  quick 
with  reproach.  Well,  had  she  told  him  about  Hilary's 
visits  ?    No :  the  case  was  different,  as  he  quickly  saw. 

"Just  now,"  Stephen  said.  "The  day  after  Roy  came. 
I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  d'you  see;  and  haven't  liked  to 
begin.  I  went  there  because,  although  she'd  eventually 
have  left  him  in  any  case,  I  thought  .  .  .  well,  I  thought 
I  ought  to  go.  If  you  could  bring  yourself  to  see  her 
you'd  love  her — at  any  rate,  like  her.  And  after  all — 
God  knows,  I've  injured  you  both!" 

Priscilla  did  not  move.  She  remained  in  his  arms,  held 
to  his  breast. 

"What  would  she  think?"  she  presently  asked. 

"She  thought  you  wouldn't." 

"Did  you  speak  of  it  to  her  then?" 

"I  said  you  could  do  it — that  you  were  able  to.  I  said 
you  would.  .  .  ." 

Priscilla  sighed  deeply.  There  were  so  many  things 
that  puzzled  her. 

"I  think  you'd  better  let  me  go  now,"  she  said  gently. 
"I  think  you've  got  a  very  strong  will,  Stephen,  under 
your  .  .  .  persuasiveness."  She  drew  away  from  him, 
and  rose  to  her  feet.  As  she  stood  before  him  with  her 
head  bent  and  her  hand  hanging  by  her  side  he  looked 
up  at  her  with  a  renewal  of  that  pride  which  he  had  felt 
earlier.  "Do  you  want  me  to  go  to  see  .  .  .  Minnie; 
or  will  she  come  here?" 

"As  you  wish,"  Stephen  said.  "She's  in  a  horrible 
place  though." 

"I'll  go  to  see  her,"  said  Priscilla.  "You  must  give 
me  the  address.     Give  it  to  me  now." 

"Thank  God!"  He  too  rose,  and  lifted  her  hand  to 
his  lips.     They  had  both  forgotten  Hilary. 


CHAPTER  XXV:  PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE 


IT  used  to  be  possible — and  may  still  be  possible — to 
walk  by  direct  roads  from  the  flagstaff  near  the 
White  Stone  Pond  at  Hampstead  to  the  pretty  Hendon 
(now  rendered  less  picturesque  by  shining  villas  and  by 
the  aeroplane  hangars)  ;  and  thence  by  field-paths,  as  the 
guide-books  say,  to  Totteridge.  It  was  certainly  possible 
when  Stephen  and  Priscilla  walked  from  their  cottage  on 
the  day  after  this  talk  and  paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Evandine.  They  started  early  in  the  afternoon  and 
arrived  to  tea ;  and  at  the  house  they  found  Dorothy  and 
Mr.  Vanamure,  as  well  as  Priscilla's  father  and  mother. 
They  found  all  these  virtuous  people  sitting  in  the  garden 
under  the  mulberry-tree,  waiting  for  Biddy  to  bring  out 
the  cake-stand,  and  a  little  table,  and  the  large  tray.  And 
Stephen  remembered  ancient  days,  with  something  like 
shame  in  his  heart.  He  could  so  clearly  remember  coming 
back  here  and  being  rude  to  Mrs.  Evandine  and  seeing 
Priscilla  again  for  the  first  time  after  their  obscure 
quarrel.  It  was  like  a  dream — a  dream  such  as  one  may 
have  upon  a  summer's  day,  when  the  birds  are  chirping 
merrily  or  ill-temperedly  among  themselves,  and  when 
sparrows  and  starlings  are  discussing  the  characters  of 
other  sparrows  and  starlings  which  have  appropriated 
all  the  tit-bits.  And  the  party  under  the  mulberry-tree, 
waiting  contentedly  for  tea  time,  hailed  with  joy  the 
advent  of  such  welcome  callers.  Dorothy  was  the  first 
to  rise  and  walk  impetuously  towards  them;  but  the 
others  were  very  nearly  as  quick.  Mr.  Vanamure  in 
especial  was  profound  in  his  respectful  salutations.  He 
stood  there  with  his  soft  eyes  beaming  and  his  rich  beard 

364 


PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE  365 

as  dark  as  a  fine  chestnut ;  and  it  seemed  to  Priscilla  that 
he  could  never  have  left  off  talking  since  she  had  last  seen 
him.  He  still  smoked  the  most  magnificent  cigars,  the 
scent  of  one  of  which  hurried  across  the  lawn  before  him, 
racing  with  the  sound  of  his  mellifluous  voice. 

"A  most  unlooked-for  and  enchanting  pleasure,"  said 
Mr.  Vanamure.  "I  was  inquiring  only  the  other  moment 
of  good  Mr.  Evandine  here  whether  you  were  both  in  the 
perfection  of  health." 

"And  now  you  see  for  yourself,"  said  Priscilla,  gently 
smiling,  "that  we  are !" 

"That  is  my  pleasure,"  Mr.  Vanamure  assured  her, 
with  an  additional  bow  of  compliment. 

"Oh,  Priscilla,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!"  cried 
Dorothy. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Evandine,  if  less  effusive,  were  as 
cordial;  and  the  matchless  Biddy,  approaching  at  this 
moment,  smiled  also  in  a  delicious  unbending  of  joy. 
Upon  her  finger  lay  a  great  hoop  of  gold,  coruscating 
with  gems,  so  that  every  available  ray  of  sunshine  darted 
to  the  spot,  as  birds  to  a  crumb.  It  took  away  the  breath 
of  the  visitors  unexpectedly  to  see  such  splendour;  but  it 
is  gratifying  to  record  that  their  appetite  remained 
staunch. 

"Tea,"  said  Mr.  Vanamure,  falling  into  a  philosophic 
vein,  "is  of  all  meals  the  one  which  most  charmingly 
permits  the  freedom  of  discourse.  In  this  enchanting 
garden,  with  the  birds  .  .  ." 

"Yiss,"  said  Mr.  Evandine  hurriedly.  "Very  nice 
.  .  .  very  nice.     And  now,  my  dear  Priscilla  .  .  ." 

"Don't  listen  to  them!"  whispered  Dorothy;  "but  tell 
me  how  you  are!" 

What  a  pleasant  tea  it  was!  The  afternoon  was  very 
warm,  but  there  was  a  strong  breeze,  and  the  tree  above 
their  heads  rustled  in  a  lovely  undersong  to  their  thoughts 
and  little  speeches.    Upon  the  air  came  the  fragrance  of 


366  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

the  garden,  and  the  sweet  noises  that  make  summer 
afternoons  such  happily  woven  memories.  The  tinkle 
of  the  spoons,  the  sweet  and  insubstantial  foods,  the 
general  air  of  kindness  and  courtesy,  were  as  soothing 
to  Priscilla  as  they  were  to  Stephen.  She  found  herself 
thinking  of  many  other  such  days,  when,  after  tennis  or 
after  some  less  strenuous  pastime,  she  had  enjoyed  of  old 
teas  almost  exactly  comparable.  She  gave  herself  up  to 
reverie,  recalling  a  thousand  things.  .  .  .  Then,  when 
there  had  been  a  little  pause,  they  noticed  her  smiling, 
and  Dorothy  invited  her  to  declare  the  reason. 

"I've  been  remembering  other  times  when  we've  had 
tea  here,"  Priscilla  admitted.  "And  I  was  wondering 
what  it  was  .  .  .  what  little  nice  thing  I  missed  from 
this  one.     I've  just  thought  of  it." 

"Oh,  Priscilla!  How  nice  of  you!"  cried  Dorothy. 
"It's  David,  of  course." 

"Well,  no!"  hesitated  Priscilla.  "Not  David,  dear. 
.  .  .  I'm  so  sorry  it  wasn't  David.  The  one  I  missed 
was  Romeo.  I  feel  so  strongly  that  Romie  ought  to  be 
here,  lying  on  the  edge  of  my  skirt." 

"Now  that's  just  beautiful !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vanamure. 
"Just  beautiful!  One  can't  help  observing  the  benefits 
of  association" — he  bowed  respectfully  to  Mr.  Evandine 
— "with  one  who,  if  I  may  say  so,  has  brought  humane 
letters  to  a  fine  art." 

"Ugh!"  grunted  Stephen;  and  Mr.  Evandine  flinched 
under  the  merry  eyes  of  the  two  girls. 

"Yiss,  yiss,"  he  said  in  perturbation.  "And  whawt, 
my  dear  Priscilla,  has  our  friend  Romeo  been  doing 
lately?    Yiss." 

Mrs.  Evandine  looked  up  hopefully.  It  sprang  into 
her  mind  that  what  David  had  called  the  day  of  the  evil 
Vanamure  was  nearing  its  end.  When  her  husband 
showed  signs  of  unrest  she  could  begin  to  regard  him 
once  more  as   independent   of   adulation.      She   looked 


PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE  367 

comically  at  Stephen,  whose  grunt  had  reached  her;  and 
he,  seeing  her  amusement,  nodded  in  return.  Neverthe- 
less, Mrs.  Evandine  was  sorry  for  Mr.  Vanamure. 


When  tea  was  finished,  and  when  Biddy  had  taken 
indoors  the  remains  of  the  meal,  the  party  gradually 
dispersed.  Mrs.  Evandine  and  Stephen  went  a-walking 
in  the  garden,  Dorothy  and  Priscilla  remained  in  the 
shadow,  and  Mr.  Evandine  was  followed  to  his  room  by 
a  faithful  satellite.  There  Mr.  Evandine  listened  to  a 
grave  discourse  disguised  as  an  interrogatory,  and  did 
his  utmost  to  appear  more  interested  than  in  fact  he  was. 
It  is  a  curious  thing,  that  Mr.  Evandine,  seeing  Stephen, 
of  whom  he  was  rather  afraid,  had  become  startlingly 
aware  of  his  own  weakness;  and  although  he  was  a 
weak  and  amiable  old  gentleman  he  was  not  wedded  to 
weakness,  so  that  he  saw  Stephen  as  something  better 
than  Mr.  Vanamure.  He  was  full  of  eagerness  to  talk 
to  his  son-in-law,  whose  good  opinion  he  now  coveted; 
and  it  was  by  a  pathetic  irony  of  fate  that  Mr.  Vanamure 
was  present  upon  this  otherwise  unclouded  afternoon. 
It  was  not,  then,  the  merry  glances  of  the  girls  which  had 
disturbed  Mr.  Evandine :  it  was  the  silent  incorruptible 
presence  of  Stephen  which  had  sent  a  searching  question 
to  his  self-respect.  He  sat  with  his  admirer  an  embar- 
rassed victim,  much  too  polite  to  bid  him  go,  but  engaged 
in  a  private  mesmeric  endeavour,  trying  vainly  to  com- 
pass Mr.  Vanamure's  departure  by  means  of  hypnotic 
suggestion. 

The  girls  had  much  to  say  to  each  other;  and  Mrs. 
Evandine  was  showing  Stephen  how  very  obstinate  Minch 
could  be.  She  had  suggested  certain  changes  in  the  bed- 
ding, which,  she  was  convinced,  would  have  been  quite 
practicable.  But  Minch,  called  by  her  into  counsel,  had 
been  obdurate.     He  had  said  that  what  she  had  wanted 


368  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

could  not  be  done;  that,  even  if  it  could  be  done,  it  would 
be  very  costly,  very  unsatisfactory,  very  difficult,  very 
unpleasant,  very  unnecessary.  .  .  .  And  he  had  wriggled 
and  twisted  until  Mrs.  Evandine  had  been  forced  to 
abandon  her  idea.       , 

"Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that  it  could  be  done?"  she 
appealed. 

"I  should  have  thought  so,"  answered  Stephen,  in  his 
most  solemn  manner.  "From  here,  you  mean?  .  .  ." 
He  indicated  the  spot  with  his  foot.  Mrs.  Evandine 
stooped  and  made  motions  with  her  hands.  From  behind 
a  bush  many  yards  away,  where  he  had  been  stooping 
in  the  shade  to  tie  up  a  wanton  branch,  the  object  of 
her  maledictions  watched  them.  The  wicked  Minch, 
unable  to  hear  a  word,  breathed  heavily  at  his  knowledge 
of  what  was  going  on.  He  eyed  Stephen  in  an  unfriendly 
way,  in  case  Stephen  should  emphatically  declare  that  the 
alteration  could  and  should  be  made.  How  wicked  Minch 
was  will  never  be  known.  He  was  a  complete  profes- 
sional gardener;  and  these  are  evil  men.  It  is  the  result 
of  stooping  so  much  in  the  sun. 

"However,"  said  Mrs.  Evandine,  "it's  too  bad  to  worry 
you  about  this.  It's  only  an  idea  of  mine ;  and  the  reason 
I  asked  you  was  that  I  want  a  moral  support.  When  one 
comes  to  deal  with  a  man  like  Minch  one  feels  so  power- 
less, so  amateurish.  He's  able  to  assume  the  most  con- 
temptuous expression  I  ever  saw !" 

Stephen  saw  Minch  lurking  behind  a  bush  many  yards 
away. 

"He's  practising  espionage,"  he  said.  "Don't  look 
that  way." 

They  elaborately  avoided  the  brigand-like  Minch, 
instead  of  calling  him,  as  they  might  have  done,  and 
telling  him  to  produce  his  considered  objections.  How- 
ever, as  the  alteration  was  for  next  year,  and  as  it  was 
eventually  made  by  the  reluctant  Minch,  in  accordance 


PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE  369 

with  Mrs.  Evandine's  plan,  there  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  much  amiss  in  their  conduct.  Th^y  proceeded  to 
walk  about  the  garden,  under  the  long,  beautiful  arches 
of  rambler  roses,  now  at  their  height,  and  to  talk  of 
other  things. 

iii 

"You've  been  seeing  a  good  deal  of  Skeffington  lately, 
haven't  you?"  began  Stephen.  "He's  a  funny  chap.  He 
often  comes  in  to  see  us  in  the  evenings." 

"It  was  rather  amusing  to  hear  him  talking  to  Mr. 
Agg  the  other  evening,"  went  on  Mrs.  Evandine.  "They 
dislike  each  other,  and  each  other's  work,  intensely.  I've 
never  seen  such  opposites.  But  they  get  on  very  well 
indeed,  because  they  try  to  outdo  each  other.  However, 
I  like  Mr.  Skeffington.  He's  a  cheerful  man.  I  think 
he  likes  you  very  much." 

Stephen  became  rather  uncomfortable  because  he  did 
not  like  to  feel  so  pleased. 

"I  was  with  him  yesterday.  This  is  the  second  lazy 
afternoon  I've  had  this  week." 

"Not  ill?" 

"No.  But  instead  of  going  up  to  town  I've  worked 
at  home  both  mornings.  I've  been  working  on  David's 
book.  It's  remarkable  that  I  can  get  on  ever  so  much 
better  at  home ;  but  the  cottage  is  so  small  that  it  means 
Irene  going  about  on  tip-toe.  ...  So  I  don't  do  it  often." 

"You're  not  working  too  hard?  I  don't  really  think 
either  of  you  looks  well.  I  hope  Hampstead  agrees  with 
you  both."  Mrs.  Evandine  spoke  anxiously.  "Are  you 
both  quite  happy  ?  I  mean,  no  worries  ?"  She  was  look- 
ing up  at  him  with  that  clear  truth-telling  and  truth- 
seeking  expression  which  she  had  in  common  with  Pris- 
cilla.  Stephen  looked  back  at  her  dubiously.  How  could 
he  answer  such  a  direct  question,  situated  as  he  was? 

"I've  been  worried  about  The  Norm,"  he  admitted, 


370  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

disingenuously.  "But  that's  over  now.  It's  being  kept 
on,  at  any  rate  for  a  time.  You  know  we've  got  Roy 
staying  with  us?  He's  been  rather  a  worry.  Still, 
Priscilla's  taken  him  in  hand ;  and  she's  worked  wonders 
already." 

"And  are  these  all  your  worries?"  asked  Mrs.  Evan- 
dine.    "  They're  not  enough  to  make  Priscilla  so  white." 

"You  think  she's  ill?"  asked  Stephen  quickly. 

"I'm  rather  shocked  at  her  appearance." 

What  could  Stephen  do  or  say  ?  How  could  he  set  the 
mother's  heart  at  rest? 

"We  haven't  been  quarrelling,"  he  assured  her.  "But 
we've  been  talking  a  lot.  I  think  it'll  be  all  right.  But 
there  are  some  other  worries.  Or  rather  .  .  .  there  have 
been.     Some  of  them  continue,  worse  luck!" 

"Stephen,  you  alarm  me,  you  know!"  cried  Mrs. 
Evandine.  "I  don't  want  to  ask  inconvenient  questions; 
but  I  don't  like  to  see  you  both  looking  .  .  .  It's  not 
possible,  I  suppose,  that  you're  keeping  something  from 
Priscilla  that  she's  found  out  in  some  other  way — by 
accident?" 

"No.    She  knows  everything.    We've  got  no  secrets." 

"And  no  disagreements?" 

"Hardly  any." 

"Don't  give  in,  Stephen.  Never  give  in,  if  you're  sure 
you're  right."  He  laughed  at  her  whimsical  instruction, 
which  he  supposed  to  be  intended  ironically.  "I  mean 
that.  Stephen — do  you  realize  that  Priscilla's  rather  a 
young  girl?" 

"Yes,"  he  soberly  said. 

"And  that  you  must  treat  her  .  .  .  rather  carefully? 
Really,  I  mean,  make  demands  on  her."  With  a  faint 
frown  Stephen  looked  up.  "Priscilla's  rich  in  all  sorts 
of  ways.  But  I  think — I  always  have  thought — that 
you  may  spoil  her  by  being  afraid  to  call  out  these 
resources.     She's  unselfish,  and  she  can  understand  and 


PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE  371 

do  all  sorts  of  things  that  you  think  a  woman  can't  do 
and  understand.  And  if  you're  afraid  to  make  demands 
she  may  not  know  enough  to  rise  to  the  occasion.  If 
you  trust  her — and  depend  upon  her — let  her  see  that 
you  expect  her  help  at  every  turn,  as  a  right,  and  not  as 
a  favour — you'll  find  that  she'll  respond.  But  you  must 
be  a  man,  Stephen ;  and  treat  her  as  though  she  not  only 
had  your  love,  but  your  reliance.  .  .  .  This  is  wisdom, 
I  assure  you." 

Mrs.  Evandine  had  grown  so  prettily  serious  during 
this  long  speech  that  she  had  looked  exactly  as  if  Priscilla 
herself  were  pleading  to  be  put  into  harness.  Stephen 
nodded  his  head. 

"I  hadn't  worked  on  this  plan,"  he  said.  "I  doubt 
if  I  could  have  done  so.  But,"  and  at  this  he  a  little 
shook  his  head,  with  self-reproach,  "I'm  quite  sure  I've 
made  plenty  of  demands  on  Priscilla.  And  what's  more, 
Priscilla  is  splendidly  rising  to  the  occasion."  He  was 
proud  to  say  that,  and  his  eye  kindled. 

iv 

On  the  way  home,  when  Priscilla  and  Stephen  were 
walking  to  Whetstone,  he  noticed  that  she  was  very  quiet, 
and  wondered  whether  by  any  chance  Mrs.  Evandine 
had  spoken  to  her  in  a  similar  sense.  As  they  were  walk- 
ing in  the  early  evening,  when  the  overhanging  trees  made 
the  pathway  dark,  he  could  not  see  Priscilla's  face;  but 
could  only  look  past  her  at  the  road,  now  grey  as  a 
spider's  web,  and  across  at  the  darkness  of  the  fencing 
opposite.  Many  many  times  in  the  past  had  he  walked 
along  this  way,  after  parting  with  Priscilla ;  and  he  could 
not  now  see  this  lovely  scene,  mysterious  in  its  dimness, 
without  emotion.  He  did  not  love  it  for  itself,  as  some 
of  us  do ;  he  loved  it  because  it  was  associated  in  his  mind 
with  those  moments  of  his  life  when  feeling  had  been 
strongest  within  him.    The  road  belonged  to  times  when 


372  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

he  could  never  have  imagined  Priscilla  as  his  wife,  times 
when  he  was  sure  she  could  never  marry  him,  times  again, 
more  recent,  when  she  had  promised  to  do  so.  He  had 
never  walked  this  way  since  their  marriage.  Uncon- 
trollably he  was  moved  to  walk  nearer  to  her,  and  gently 
to  take  her  arm. 

"A  little  tired,  are  you?"  he  asked.  Priscilla  impul- 
sively drew  his  arm  closer  instead  of  replying  in  words. 
So  bound,  they  went  onwards,  Priscilla  stepping  out  more 
boldly  now  that  she  had  his  support.  Stephen  also  was 
in  no  mood  for  talking;  but  he  was  also  anxious  not  to 
appear  glum,  so  he  rather  forced  himself  to  speak  of  the 
afternoon  in  what  he  conceived  to  be  a  cheerful  spirit. 

"Your  father,"  he  said,  "seems  to  have  solved  his 
Southey  difficulty — by  deciding  not  to  write  that  biogra- 
phy at  all.  He  says  it  would  need  so  much  rereading  of 
stuff  he  went  over  for  the  Crabb  Robinson  book.  That 
period  is  so — what  he  calls  'fully  documented' — that  it 
means  years  of  work  unless  he  sticks  to  it  constantly.  He 
asked  me  to  do  it.  .  .  ."  Stephen  paused  a  moment  in 
case  she  might  make  any  comment.  "But  I  told  him  that 
as  I  wasn't  specially  interested  in  Southey  I  didn't  think 
I'd  make  any  attempt.  He's  always  coquetted  with  that 
idea.  His  idea  is  that  you  can  make  yourself  interested. 
I  wish  I  could  do  that ;  but  I  can't.  He  seems  to  be  able 
to  take  a  man,  read  through  his  work  and  all  the  material 
about  him,  improvise  a  sort  of  enthusiasm  for  it,  and 
write  a  charming  book.  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  you  thought  his  books  were  bad,"  said 
Priscilla  quickly. 

"Er  .  .  .  well,  I  suppose  I  do  think  they're  wrong," 
he  admitted.  "In  one  way.  I  could  understand  if  he 
didn't  improvise  his  enthusiasm — if  he  set  himself  defi- 
nitely to  find  out  what  he  thinks  of  a  man,  and  put  that 
on  record,  once  and  for  all.  That  I  understand,  because 
it's  an  intellectual  experiment.     What  I  can't  understand 


PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE  373 

is,  making  oneself  a  partisan  for  the  occasion,  as  he  seems 
to  be  able  to  do — 'making  the  best'  of  somebody.  That 
doesn't  seem  to  me  to  have  any  critical  value.  It's  mere 
patronage.  But  all  the  same,  I  think  his  books  are  charm- 
ing (however  wrong),  and  I'm  sure  he'd  write  a  very 
nice  book  about  Southey,  and  say  very  apt  things  about 
the  vast  heap  that  Southey  wrote.  .  .  .  However,  he 
says  he  can't  do  it.  I  can't  imagine  him  wading  through 
all  that  stuff  with  any  pleasure.  .  .  ." 

"Is  it  worth  wading  through?"  asked  Priscilla. 

"I  should  think  it  was  very  interesting.  I  could  read 
it  with  interest;  but  I  couldn't  praise  it." 

Priscilla  laughed — a  laugh  that  had  sudden  tears  in 
it. 

"Oh,  you  are  funny!"  she  murmured.  "There  must 
be  something  inhuman  about  you !" 

Stephen  was  taken  aback.  He  had  been  carefully 
discriminating;  and  he  had  somehow  made  Priscilla 
laugh.  It  was  very  strange.  The  surprise  did  not  irri- 
tate him ;  but  then  it  did  not  please  him.  He  remained 
impersonal.  "Do  you  mean,"  Priscilla  went  on,  "that 
father  would  read  it  all  with  a  sort  of  something  like 
boredom,  and  then  extricate  himself  by  some  pleasant 
praise  .  .  .  and  let  poor  Southey  remain  where  he  is 
now  .  .  .  nobody  reading  him?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Stephen,  much  pleased.  "And  he 
wouldn't  even  be  quite  perfectly  accurate  in  his  facts. 
He'd  work  in  somebody  else's  opinion  of  something  he 
hadn't  been  able  to  read  through  ...  so  as  to  give  it 
a  gloss  of  .  .  ." 

"What  a  dishonest  man  you  must  think  him!"  cried 
Priscilla.  "D'you  think  he  feels  like  that  about  Mr. 
Vanamure?" 

Stephen  laughed,  as  he  had  not  laughed  for  several 
weeks. 

"I'm  sure  of  it!"  he  declared.     "He  admits  he's  bored 


374  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

by  him.  He  began  to  complain  this  evening,  after  Vana- 
mure  had  gone.  And  then  he  gave  a  most  delicate 
description  of  Vanamure — a  portrait,  d'you  see? — and 
all  the  boredom  was  toned  down  into  a  charming  .  .  . 
call  it  an  'appreciation'  .  .  .  with  the  boringness  slurred 
over  and  the  enthusiasm  exalted.  Not  at  all  true :  it 
bore  as  much  relation  to  Vanamure  as  to  me.  If  I  were 
to  die " 

"Stephen!"     Priscilla's  heart  gave  a  jump. 

"I'm  very  tough.  I  was  going  to  say  that  he'd  write 
about  my  bad  temper  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  that  I 
wasn't  bad-tempered  at  all.  He'd  say  that  my  writing 
was  beautiful.  And  the  cunning  man  would  actually 
find  somewhere  a  sentence  or  two  that  bore  out  what  he 
said!" 

Priscilla  made  no  protest.  She  only  thought  to  herself 
that  some  people  had  curious  ideas  about  their  own 
natures ;  and  that  outsiders  perhaps  after  all  did  see  more 
of  the  game.     In  a  moment  she  spoke  again : 

"Did  mother  speak  to  you  about  me?" 

"A  little.  She  thought  you  looked  ill.  I  had  to  be 
very  nimble  to  escape  her." 

"Oh,"  Priscilla  said,  half  to  herself.  "Did  you  .  .  . 
Stephen,  did  you  by  any  chance  mention  Hilary  to  her?" 
Stephen  reflected.     He  could  not  remember  anything. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  answered  slowly.  "Oh,  you 
mean —  Certainly  not.  I  don't  think  his  name  came  up 
at  all.     Why?" 

Priscilla  bent  her  head  so  that  for  a  moment  it  touched 
his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  said.  "Only  she  spoke  to  me  about 
him.    She  said  exactly  what  you  said." 

v 
The  long  journey  by  tramcar  to  Golders  Green,  and 


PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE  375 

the  walk  from  there  in  the  beautiful  summer  evening,  was 
made  by  these  two  in  almost  complete  silence.  But 
Stephen  had  led  Priscilla  along  the  Finchley  Road  so 
that  they  could  reach  the  Heath  by  way  of  Hermitage 
Lane  End  and  the  West  Heath  Road.  He  was  disap- 
pointed at  the  fact  that  the  sky  was  too  dark  for  a 
repetition  of  that  thrill  which  he  had  felt  after  his  long 
day's  walk. 

"I  wanted  you  to  see  a  beauty,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"But  though  the  lights  look  jolly  now  they're  not  as  I 
saw  them.  It's  too  dark.  That  day  ...  a  dreadful  day, 
dear.  .  .  .  The  day  after  I'd  told  you  about  Minnie. 
When  I  told  you,  I  thought  I  understood  you;  but  it 
wasn't  till  I'd  had  that  day  by  myself,  and  came  back 
in  the  evening,  that  I  really  understood,  and  was  really 
ashamed.  .  .  ." 

"Dear!"  said  Priscilla,  wonderingly.  Stephen  sighed. 
She  could  not  see  that  his  eyes  were  bright. 

"I  was  coming  home — I  came  home  hoping  you'd  be 
alone,  and  not  cold ;  and  came  hurrying  up  here,  and 
along  home.  .  .  .  That  was  the  first  time  I  really  felt 
personally  jealous  of  Badoureau.  He  was  at  home,  with 
David;  and  you  were  .  .  ."  While  he  hesitated  over  a 
word,  Priscilla  supplied  another. 

"I  was  hateful,"  she  said.  "I  remember.  I  still  am 
hateful." 

"No,  dear,  you  weren't.  It  was  just  getting  dusk,  and 
the  lamps  were  shining  in  the  twilight.  I  wonder  why  it 
is  that  lights  at  twilight  always  seem  so  beautiful.  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  was  unhappy." 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  easier  it  is  to  speak  of  past 
unhappiness — of  a  past  occasion,  even  though  the  same 
unhappiness  remains — than  of  that  which  is  present. 
Stephen  could  say  this  to  her;  but  he  could  not  have 
said,  as  he  might  with  truth  have  done.  "I  am  absolutely 
at  your  mercy;  and  if  the  next  few  days  go  wrong,  and 


376  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

you  still  are  estranged  after  seeing  Minnie,  I  shall  be  in 
despair,  hopeless  of  any  future." 


VI 

As  they  entered  their  gate  Priscilla  gave  a  choked 
little  scream. 

"Stephen !" 

The  dark  figure  which  had  turned  from  the  unlighted 
window  drew  itself  up. 

"Pardon,"  said  a  voice.  "I  crave  the  lady's  pardon." 
And  with  that  the  old  man,  with  characteristic  dignity, 
made  a  step  to  move  past  them.  His  tone  changed.  "To 
such  straits  I'm  reduced,  my  dear  daughter-in-law.  The 
old  man  has  to  steal  by  night  to  try  and  see  his  lost  boy, 
his  baby."  He  stood  before  Priscilla.  "Good  night  to 
you,"  he  said,  hurried  to  the  gate,  and  walked  swiftly 
down  the  road. 

They  went  into  the  empty  house,  and  Stephen  turned 
on  the  light  in  the  sitting-room.  Priscilla  followed  him 
into  the  room,  still  wearing  her  hat. 

"Stephen,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  it  is  right  to  take 
Roy  away  from  him?  .  .  .  Oh,  of  course  it  must  be 
right.     But  I  do  think  he  sounded  rather  pathetic." 

"You  think  I'm  hard  on  him?"  Stephen  asked.  "Roy 
is  probably  at  Slapperton  Street  now,  trying  to  see  the 
old  man.  I  told  him  to  go,  because  the  old  man  really 
is  frantically  fond  of  him.  But  if  he  stays  there — d'you 
see?" 

Priscilla  nodded. 

"Oh!"  she  burst  out.  "It's  horrible  .  .  .  the  way  one 
has  to  be  deliberately  cruel !" 

"Well,  I  think  careless  cruelty's  worse,"  answered 
Stephen,  "because  it's  wanton.  The  old  man  kept  Roy, 
and  made  a  mess  of  it.  That's  all.  You  don't  want  to 
see  Roy  go  under?" 


PARENTAL  SOLICITUDE  377 

"No.  I'm  not  blaming  you.  I  meant  what  a  pity  it 
was  necessary.  Why  isn't  Roy  strong  enough  to  look 
after  himself?" 

"Roy's  a  son  of  the  old  man." 

"So  are  you.  You're  strong  enough.  .  .  .  Strong 
.  .  .  How  implacable  you  are !" 

"Dearest,  I  can  assure  you  I  haven't  always  been. 
Dorothy  used  to  be  quite  as  indignant  about  my  softness. 
Quite  as  indignant.  She  used  to  ask  me  why  I  let  the 
old  man  spoil  all  our  lives.  If  I'd  done  as  I  ought  to 
have  done,  and  thrown  him  over  as  soon  as  my  mother 
died,  life  would  have  been  a  different  thing.  People  like 
the  old  man  can't  somehow  be  escaped  without  brutality. 
Really  I've  given  him  every  chance.  But  since  Roy  was 
born  he's  been  drinking  all  the  time,  and  that  rots  the 
moral  fibre.     He's  got  no  moral  sense  left!" 

"Drinking!"  said  Priscilla.  "Had  he  been  drinking 
just  now?" 

"Always." 

"Tell  me,  how  did  you  stop  him  from  always  writing 
and  coming  .  .  .  prowling?" 

Stephen  smiled  very  grimly. 

"I  told  him  that  if  he  kept  on  blackmailing  me  he  not 
only  wouldn't  get  any  more  money,  but  wouldn't  get 
his  pound  a  week.  That  was  quite  enough.  Also  I 
told  him  that  the  only  two  people  he  had  in  his  mind  .  .  . 
the  people  whose  opinion  of  me  might  be  affected  by 
anything  he  said,  knew  the  real  facts." 

"Two  people?"  breathed  Priscilla. 

"Yourself  and  your  father.  I  told  him  long  before 
we  were  married." 

Priscilla  stood  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  before  she 
went  to  remove  her  hat. 


CHAPTER  XXVI:  HILARY 


FOR  a  long  time  Priscilla  could  not  sleep  for  thinking 
of  Stephen's  last  words;  and  in  the  morning  they 
were  still  the  subject  of  her  anxious  attention.  So  her 
father  had  known  all  along !  He  had  seen  in  the  knowl- 
edge nothing  to  affect  his  relation  to  Stephen ;  more,  he 
had  consented  ...  he  must  have  consented  to  Stephen's 
silence.  From  that  it  was  an  easy  step  to  the  idea — 
Suppose  he  had  even  suggested  that  silence  ?  The  moment 
she  thought  of  that  her  mind  seemed  to  give  a  great 
jerk.  If  the  suggestion  had  been  his,  did  not  that  make 
a  great  difference  ?  It  made  almost  as  great  a  revolution 
in  her  mind  as  Stephen's  original  disclosure.  For  if  her 
father  knew,  was  it  not  possible  that  her  mother  also 
knew  ?  Priscilla  shivered  at  such  a  supposition.  It  made 
her  seem  extraordinarily  lonely,  until  a  flaming  heat  came 
upon  her  with  indignation  that  she  should  have  had  so 
little  voice  in  a  matter  that  concerned  her  happiness.  She 
was  not  a  child !  Oh,  it  was  all  so  squalid — so  solemn ! 
Irritation  succeeded  to  anger,  and  was  again  displaced  by 
bewildered  sadness.  To  think  of  all  these  kind  people 
watching  over  her,  and  trying  to  make  her  life  smooth 
in  a  bypath !  Oh,  she  must  end  this  way :  it  was  a  shame- 
ful road  to  travel!  Restlessly  she  moved  about  during 
the  morning,  giving  her  attention  to  daily  things  as  they 
arose,  but  anon  recurring  to  the  principal  theme  of  her 
present  discontents.  Her  resolutions  gradually  took  form 
as  she  went  about  the  house,  and  she  was  glad  also  to 
devote  herself  to  particular  pieces  of  work  as  emphasizing 
a  new  utility  upon  which  she  was  determined  to  concen- 
trate. She  would  be  useful ;  she  would  be  virtuous ;  she 
would  in  every  way  show  these  well-wishers  that  they 

378 


HILARY  379 

had  underrated  her  strength.     Gravely  Priscilla  nodded 
to  herself,  thinking  how  great  that  strength  truly  was. 


In  the  afternoon,  which  was  again  one  of  bright  sun- 
shine, she  discarded  her  working  dress  for  one  better 
suited  to  the  work  she  had  in  hand,  put  on  her  pretty 
blue  hat,  took  her  gloves  and  purse,  and  prepared  with 
great  deliberation  to  go  out.  She  returned  to  the  sitting- 
room  to  see  that  it  was  thoroughly  in  order,  and  paid  a 
visit  to  the  kitchen  where  Irene  was  occupied  in  harmless 
tasks. 

"You'll  be  all  right  till  I  come  back?"  inquired 
Priscilla. 

"Yes,  ma'am."  It  had  taken  days  of  training  to  make 
Irene  cease  calling  her  "Mrs.  Moore."  It  had  been 
"Yes,  Mrs.  Moore,"  "No,  Mrs.  Moore,"  "Good  night, 
Mrs.  Moore,"  until  Priscilla,  in  self-defence,  had  been 
forced  to  remonstrate.  So  the  more  decorous  form  of 
address  had  come  into  play. 

And  it  was  precisely  at  this  moment — as  Irene  said 
"Yes,  ma'am,"  in  her  most  well-bred  and  least  embryonic 
manner — that  Hilary's  knock  came  at  the  front  door. 
Precisely  at  this  moment,  when  Priscilla  had  her  resolu- 
tions so  firmly  in  hand  that  she  could  have  carried  them 
out  at  a  single  venture,  that  there  came  this  interruption 
which  checked  and  threw  into  confusion  the  plans  she 
had  formed.  It  did  not  need  any  violence  of  conjecture 
to  know  who  stood  there.  It  is  impossible  for  any  sensi- 
tive person  to  hear  a  knock  without  knowing  at  whose 
hands  the  knocker  tells  its  significant  story.  And  it  was 
precisely  her  attitude  to  Hilary  that  seemed  in  that 
moment  never  to  have  been  irretrievably  fixed.  Or  was 
it  truer  to  say  that  her  determined  attitude  had  been 
shattered  and  scattered  in  an  instant?  Slowly  and  pain- 
fully, while  Irene  darted  to  the  front  door  with  a  haste 


380  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

indicative  of  the  receipt  on  a  previous  occasion  of  one 
private  shilling,  Priscilla  stood  by  the  kitchen  table  pull- 
ing off  her  thin  gloves.  She  knew,  and  she  was  alarmed. 
While  yet  the  visitor's  step  sounded  in  the  hall,  and  while 
the  clicking  of  the  sitting-room  door  was  striking  her  car, 
Priscilla  put  her  hands  up  to  the  blue  hat,  removed  the 
pin,  and  continued  to  stand  holding  the  hat  listlessly  in 
her  fingers.  Her  eyes  had  for  a  moment  closed;  her 
cheeks  had  grown  faintly  more  pink;  her  body  had 
drooped.  Words  and  thoughts  and  feelings  belonging  to 
her  talks  with  Stephen  and  her  mother  recurred  swiftly, 
as  memory  is  supposed  to  flow  in  the  dreadful  seconds 
of  extremest  danger.  Cowardice  assailed  Priscilla:  she 
was  oppressed  with  a  knowledge  of  her  youth  and  inex- 
perience, like  a  little  girl  shamed  before  a  visitor.  This 
was  the  emergency  for  which  she  was  unready. 

Irene  was  back  again,  breathing  hard,  her  globular  eyes 
beaming,  her  whole  plump  and  muscular  person  wrig- 
gling as  it  were  with  suppressed  enthusiasm.  To  Irene 
the  occasion  was  one  of  delight,  not  of  conjecture.  The 
handsome  gentleman  was  in  the  parlour,  making  it  seem 
ever  so  small  by  his  fine  upstanding  gentlemanliness. 

"Please'm,  iss  Missster  Badoureau !"  hissed  the  mush- 
room, as  if  she  had  been  a  snake.  Priscilla  paid  no  heed 
to  the  hissing.  She  was  only  wondering  whether  she  had 
really  enough  self-control  to  behave  towards  him  as 
though  there  had  been  no  warning  given.  To  Irene  she 
gave  no  sign  of  nervousness. 

"Very  well,  Irene.  Then  I  shan't  be  going  out.  You 
can  bring  in  the  tea  in  twenty  minutes.  See,  we've  got 
everything?  The  china  teapot — do  put  plenty  of  tea 
in  the  pot;  and  make  quite  sure  the  kettle's  boiled. 
Boiled  fiercely,  remember!     Not  just  sung.  .  .  ." 

Irene  giggled  at  memory  of  a  time  when  she  had  seen 
tea-leaves  swimming  about  like  cruisers  in  a  pond  of 
horrid  pale  tea.     She  promised  her  endeavours. 


HILARY  381 

Then  Priscilla,  still  holding  her  hat,  which  she  hung 
in  passing  upon  a  peg  in  the  passage,  went  bravely  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  sitting-room,  with  a  heavy  heart  and 
an  air  to  which  nervousness  had  given  only  a  most 
bewitching  vivacity. 

iii 

When  she  entered  the  sitting-room  Hilary  was  stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  was  looking  at  a  small 
caricature  of  Romeo  which  had  been  made  by  the  many 
talented  Skeffington.  He  turned  at  the  sound  of  the 
opening  door,  and  a  smile  of  welcome  lighted  up  his 
face. 

"Hallo!"  he  said,  taking  Priscilla's  hand  with  eager- 
ness. "I  say,  I  know  I'm  an  awful  nuisance;  but  I  had 
to  come  in.  How  are  you?"  Smiling  thus,  he  was 
superbly  handsome.  Every  line  of  his  body  was  full  of 
health  and  beauty — the  beauty  of  the  athlete,  with  every 
muscle  in  splendid  exercise.  To  Priscilla,  as  to  Irene, 
he  filled  the  room,  making  it  appear  inadequate.  There 
was,  seen  thus,  a  gusto  in  his  manner  of  addressing  him- 
self to  life  that  gave  him  extraordinary  charm.  He  was 
beautiful,  winning,  impetuous;  and  his  yellow  hair  above 
his  bronzed  face  served  only  by  the  contrast  to  give 
manliness  to  that  face  and  determination  to  its  expres- 
sion. "Just  looking  at  this  sketch  of  Romeo.  It's  jolly 
good.     Skeffington's  a  clever  chap !" 

When  he  paused,  Hilary  grew  less  handsome,  his  eyes 
less  frank.  With  his  praise  was  mingled  some  of  his 
inner  feeling,  his  general  reservation  concerning  the 
object  of  his  praise.  Yet  he  praised  warmly,  generously. 
Priscilla  felt  her  colour  rising  as  she  smiled  again  in 
response  to  his  eagerness. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "He  gave  us  that  the  other  evening 
when  we  were  there  to  dinner." 

"How  did  you  like  it?     I've  heard  about  the  apple 


382  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

pudding.  He's  a  great  theorist  about  apple  puddings. 
When  I  saw  him  last  he  gave  me  a  lecture.  .  .  ." 

"I  know !"  laughed  Priscilla.  "He  and  Dorothy  both 
say  the  same  thing." 

"See,  it's  anti-cloves,  anti-lemon,  anti-water:  isn't  it? 
Only  apples." 

"Fortunately  that's  the  way  I  was  taught !"  agreed 
Priscilla.  To  herself  she  was  saying,  "I'm  being  horribly 
forced  and  unnatural;  and  my  face  is  hot;  and  I'm 
shaking  away.  I  really  must  ..."  Aloud  she  begged 
him  to  sit  down.  If  only  he  were  sitting  down,  she  felt, 
it  would  be  better.  It  was  his  marvellous  largeness  that 
made  Hilary  dominate  the  room;  the  air  he  carried  of 
being  magnificently  supple.  He  sat  down,  his  blue  eyes 
unwinking,  as  blue  and  clear  as  glass. 

"How  did  you  like  the  cricket  ?"  he  went  on.  "Pretty 
boring,  wasn't  it  ?  Your  young  friend  seems  to  be  cricket 
mad." 

"Oh,"  Priscilla  asked,  while  her  heart  thudded  at  the 
remembrance  of  Roy's  indiscretion,  "is  that  where  he  is 
to-day?    You've  seen  him?" 

Hilary  also  appeared  to  feel  embarrassed  at  that 
question.  "Yes,"  he  admitted.  "Well,  I  really  went 
there  to-day  to  see  if  you'd  been  encouraged  to  go  again. 
It  was  so  jolly  the  other  day.  .  .  ." 

"Are  .  .  .  are  they  playing  another  team  to-day?" 
asked  Priscilla,  at  a  loss  for  alternative  words.  He  gave 
an  account  of  what  he  had  seen,  describing  the  play  for 
a  moment. 

"I  was  at  Lord's  this  morning,"  he  went  on.  "Nothing 
much  doing  there.  The  best  places  to  see  cricket  are  the 
country  grounds — at  Maidstone,  or  Horsham.  There 
you  get  a  pretty  scene.  It's  social.  Plenty  of  women 
go  there,  and  there's  a  lot  of  enthusiasm.  .  .  .  How's 
David?  I've  not  seen  him  since  .  .  .  See,  only  once 
since  he  got  engaged." 


HILARY  383 

"Yes ;  of  course  you've  met  Dorothy  several  times." 

"Yes,"  said  Hilary,  without  comment.  Priscilla's  eye- 
brows were  a  little  raised.  No  enthusiasm  here  meant 
everything.  It  was  clear  that  Dorothy  and  he  were  not 
friends.  Swiftly  she  decided  that  that  was  only  natural, 
since  Dorothy  had  remarked  to  her  that  Hilary  was 
conceited,  and  thought  only  of  himself.  Strange  again. 
How  quick  were  the  Moores  at  summing  up  a  character 
— particularly  at  disliking  it.  Was  it  abnormally  quick 
and  perceptive  judgment,  or  was  it  prejudice  due  to  mis- 
understanding? 

"I  should  have  thought  you'd  be  going  away,"  she 
ventured.  "You're  not  generally  in  London  during  the 
summer,  are  you?" 

"I  can't  get  away."  Hilary  pierced  her  with  his 
glance.  "I  say,  are  you  all  right?  Not  hot,  or  any- 
thing? The  window  is  open."  He  looked  quickly  at 
the  door.  Irene's  steps  were  heard  in  the  passage  as  she 
traversed  it  on  the  way  upstairs  to  the  bedroom.  "It's 
frightfully  hot  where  I  am.  I  think  I  shall  try  to  get 
a  place  up  in  this  neighbourhood.  I've  been  getting  very 
fond  of  Hampstead.  .  .  ." 

"You  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Priscilla,  with  a  decision 
born  of  her  feeling  of  desperation.  "It's  terribly  cold 
in  the  winter,  they  say.  Everything  freezes.  Besides, 
I  shouldn't  have  thought  you  could  get  what  you  wanted 
in  Hampstead." 

"How  d'you  know  what  I  want?"  asked  Hilary  in  a 
curious  voice. 

Priscilla  met  his  glance  and  read  there  sudden  danger. 
With  a  vehement  effort  she  answered  steadily. 

"I  thought  you  were  altogether  comfortable." 

"And  you're  not,  eh?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  quickly  assured  him.  "We're  quite 
comfortable." 

"Priscilla  .  .  ." 


384  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Clod,  clod,  clod  came  Irene's  steps  down  the  stairs. 
Priscilla  breathed  again.  It  was  astounding  to  her  that 
she  should  have  become  aware  unquestioningly  that  the 
conversation  was  being  forced  into  a  fateful  channel. 
Both  of  them  were  aware  of  it.  Hilary's  eyes  seemed 
burned  right  back  into  his  head,  coldly,  fixedly  glowing. 
Priscilla's  cheeks  lost  a  little  colour.     She  braced  herself. 

"That  means  that  tea's  imminent,"  she  said  calmly. 


IV 

Irene  came,  superlatively  happy,  clumping  round  the 
table  with  an  energy  that  no  warning  had  yet  sufficed 
to  tame.  That  energy  which  in  rougher  work  was  so 
admirable  she  brought  to  every  task,  and  with  extra 
obviousness  into  such  an  act  as  this.  A  held  breath 
struggled  to  free  itself  in  periodical  bursts  of  panting;  a 
tip-toeing  dash  after  stealth  made  ft  appear  that  her 
feet  were  stubborn  iron-shod  pegs.  In  this  desperate 
clamouring  half -silence,  like  the  coalman  who  has  been 
warned  that  an  invalid  lurks  within  the  house,  Irene  laid 
the  table  while  Priscilla  tried  hard  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion within  a  normal  range.  Presently  Irene,  with  one 
last  stertorous  survey  of  the  table — beautifully  set  in 
spite  of  her  apparent  clumsiness — departed,  dragging  the 
door  slowly  and  carefully  to,  only  to  slam  it  at  the  last 
instant. 

"Bit  of  a  drop  from  Biddy,"  said  Hilary  tactlessly, 
abusing  the  privilege  of  a  familiar  acquaintance.  "Ade- 
noids, I  should  think." 

"She's  a  very  good  mushroom  indeed,"  returned 
Priscilla,  in  steady  protest.  She  was  fully  aware  that 
his  remark  presumed  her  sense  of  a  fall  since  her  mar- 
riage in  standards  of  comfort.  "In  a  year  or  two  Irene 
will  be  a  very  good  maid." 

"Then  she'll  leave  you,"  promised  Hilary,  in  a  sudden 


HILARY  385 

cynicism.  "The  thing  will  have  to  begin  all  over  again. 
How  you  can  stand  it,  Priscilla,  I  don't  know." 

Priscilla  ignored  a  remark  so  impertinent. 

"Have  you  still  got  your  old  housekeeper?"  she 
inquired.     It  was  useless. 

"Priscilla  .  .  .  how  long  are  you  going  to  stand  it?" 
Hilary  pressed.  "Can't  you  see  for  yourself?  It's  kill- 
ing you.     It's  bound  to  kill  you.     You're  not  used " 

"Hilary:  you're  my  guest,  remember." 

"I'm  sorry.  But  this  is  something  ...  I  must  speak 
of  it.     I  can't  bear  to  see  you  in  this  shanty !" 

"Then  you'd  better  not  come  to  see  me  at  all,"  Priscilla 
said,  very  quietly,  but  with  a  thrilling  sense  of  crisis 
arrived.  "It  would  be  far  better.  Because  I  can't  let 
you  talk  like  that."  She  contrived  to  drink  her  tea, 
although  her  composure  was  so  assailed. 

"Upon  my  word,  Priscilla!"  cried  Hilary,  "you  can't 
mean  that !  You  know  you've  made  a  mistake."  He 
spoke  with  assurance  that  was  half  contempt  for  her 
weakness  in  attempting  such  a  pretence.  "It's  glaring!" 
He  leant  across  the  table  as  he  spoke,  trying  to  reach  her 
hand,  trying  to  make  her  meet  his  pressing,  unmistakable 
glance  of  authority. 

"Don't  be  a  cad,  Hilary!"  She  grew  hot.  "I  don't 
think  you  understand  what  you're  saying.  It's  intoler- 
able!" 

Hilary  got  up  from  the  table.  He  was  fierce  with 
excitement.     His  words  rushed  out  in  a  torrent. 

"It's  damnable!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  fellow's — 
Don't,  for  God's  sake,  say  you're  happy.  You're  not. 
I  know  you're  not.  I'm  not  blind.  To  see  you  .  .  . 
What  d'you  think  I'm  made  of?  You'll  never  stand  it. 
Never — you  couldn't !  It's  not  your  life  at  all.  And  that 
sour-faced  rancorous  prig " 

"Hilary!  Be  quiet.  This  is  awful.  I  can't  stand 
it.      If   you  can't  behave  decently — and  talk  decently, 


386  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

you  must  go."  Priscilla  also  rose  to  her  feet,  her  eyes 
dark  with  anger.  "You're  entirely  mistaken.  You've 
no " 

"Oh  .  .  .  But  let  me  say  .  .  ."  He  was  coming 
closer,  passionately.  "I'm  simply  mad  for  you.  Pris- 
cilla, dearest!  If  you  were  happy  .  .  .  No,  I  must  say 
it!  It's  no  good  putting  me  off!  If  you  were  happy — 
didn't  I  go  away?  I  ought  never  to  have  let  him  have 
you.  But  you're  as  miserable  as  you  can  be :  it's  heart- 
breaking!   Look!" 

He  impetuously  caught  her  arm  and  drew  her  to  the 
small  oak-framed  mirror  which  hung  in  the  room.  Pris- 
cilla saw  her  face  reflected  in  it,  white  and  drawn,  her 
eyes  dark  as  night.  She  drew  away,  shivering  convul- 
sively, excited  and  rendered  frantic  by  his  terrible  air 
of  mastership. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  of  this,"  she  said 
steadily.  "Listen,  Hilary,  once  and  for  all!  I  love 
Stephen  with  all  my  heart.  All  my  heart,  do  you  hear? 
As  he  loves  me!" 

And  with  that  she  lost  her  nerve  and  began  to  cry. 


For  an  instant  Hilary  stood  as  one  enchanted,  spell- 
bound by  the  machinations  of  an  evil  force. 

"You  tell  me  that?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "You 
tell  me  that?  Yes,  but  why  have  you  let  me  go  on? 
You  .  .  .  Oh,  you're  lying!     You're  lying!" 

She  moved  away  again,  across  the  room;  but  he 
followed.  He  caught  her  hand,  her  shoulder.  With  a 
rough  motion  he  took  her  violently  in  his  arms.  Impos- 
sible to  struggle  while  those  strong  arms  held  her  so 
tightly.  They  were  like  steel  ropes  that  bound  her  to 
him.  Priscilla  felt  hopeless,  hopeless.  Desperately  and 
unavailingly  she  put  forth  her  too  insignificant  energy. 


HILARY  387 

"Hilary!  Hilary!"  she  cried  chokingly,  while  he 
continued  to  kiss  her  with  savage  power.  "You  must 
let  me  go !" 

Her  agony  made  her  struggles  more  vigorous,  at  last 
of  more  avail.  He  could  not  continue  to  hold  her  against 
such  desperately  effective  protest.  As  she  wrenched  one 
arm  free  she  forced  his  head  back  and  away  from  her 
face. 

"Priscilla !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

Terrified,  afraid  to  call  out,  but  with  every  fear  stab- 
bing her  heart,  Priscilla  looked  wildly  round  the  room. 
Her  eye  fell  upon  the  window.  Against  the  pane  was  a 
white  face,  and  two  eyes  met  her  own  for  that  frightful 
instant.  She  screamed  shrilly  with  horror.  Hilary  too 
had  seen  the  face.  It  sobered  him.  He  released  her  and 
they  both  stood  panting.  They  heard  the  kitchen  door 
open,  and  Priscilla  went  quickly  to  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room. 

"It's  all  right,  Irene,"  she  said  in  as  steady  a  voice 
as  she  could  command.  Then  she  turned,  and  to  Hilary 
said:  "Now  go.  Go.  Never  .  .  .  never  .  .  ."  She 
could  say  no  more. 

How  she  remained  upright  until  he  went  she  never 
knew;  but  the  moment  the  front  door  banged  her 
strength  seemed  to  evaporate,  and  Priscilla  slid  sobbing 
and  half  fainting  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXVII:  PRISCILLA'S  JOURNEY 


WEARILY  Priscilla  rose :  mechanically  she  put  her 
hands  to  her  hair  and  to  her  eyes.  The  self- 
disgust  she  felt  was  mingled  with  horror  at  recollection 
of  that  peering  and  malignant  face.  It  was  as  if  a  dream 
sufficiently  unpleasant  had  drifted  without  warning  into 
nightmare.  Still  half  sobbing  she  went  across  the  room, 
leaning  upon  the  mantelpiece  and  looking  down  into  the 
empty  grate,  blind  to  everything,  conscious  only  of  a 
passionate  loathing  which  made  her  almost  hysterical. 
So  she  remained,  with  long  quivers  of  horror  shaking 
her  body,  immersed  in  her  sense  of  shame,  until  thought 
began  once  more  to  play  its  part.  It  seemed  to  steady 
her  for  a  moment.  She  acted  upon  an  imperious  impulse 
— from  whatever  it  sprang — of  self -protection  in  forcing 
herself  to  be  calm  until  an  emergency  was  past;  and,  after 
a  hesitation,  she  rang  for  Irene  to  clear  away  the  tea- 
things. 

That  done,  Priscilla  went,  her  composure  turned  to 
stupor,  up  the  short  flight  of  stairs  to  her  bedroom. 
Oblivious  of  everything,  with  wave  upon  wave  of  reac- 
tion breaking  down  her  powers  of  nervous  resistance,  she 
flung  herself  sobbing  quietly  upon  the  bed.  Had  she  per- 
mitted it,  had  she  begun  to  sob  aloud,  she  would  have 
lost  self-control  and  abandoned  herself  to  passionate 
weeping.  With  desperate  will  she  maintained  that  self- 
control,  suffering  the  more,  but  preserving  her  pride. 
Only  at  times,  when  her  mind  went  creeping  back  to 
particular  feelings,  there  came  upon  her  a  frantic  surge 
of  excitement  that  could  only  have  found  vent  in  an 
hysterical  scream  had  she  not  opposed  an  equally  fierce 
repressive  impulse.     With  her  little  sobs  growing  less 

388 


PRISCILLA'S  JOURNEY  389 

and  less,  and  her  stupor  increasing,  Priscilla  lay  upon  the 
bed  in  a  state  between  sleeping  and  waking.  An  hour 
passed.     Two  hours  .  .  . 

It  was  not  until  the  clock  below  chimed  six  times  that 
Priscilla  started  up,  at  first  leaning  heavily  and  languidly 
upon  her  elbow,  stupidly  feeling  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  go  downstairs  again.  But  she  was  unable  to  stay. 
Roy  and  Stephen  would  be  home.  .  .  .  They  must  not 
know  that  she  was  ill,  or  the  cause  of  her  distress.  Slowly 
she  rose,  sitting  on  the  bed  for  another  few  moments  of 
exhausted  lethargy.  Then,  with  a  sense  of  fatal  delay, 
she  feverishly  staggered  to  her  feet,  smoothed  her  gown, 
bathed  her  face,  and  dressed  her  hair  before  slipping 
down  once  more  to  the  kitchen. 

ii 

As  soon  as  Stephen  came  in  he  saw  that  she  was  ill,  and 
sent  her  to  bed.  Although  he  speculated  about  the  cause 
he  made  no  comment  or  inquiry.  Only  he  insisted  that 
she  should  rest;  and  later  found  her  asleep,  her  face 
almost  as  white  as  the  pillow-slip  upon  which  her  head 
lay. 

So  night  passed  and  morning  came. 

In  the  morning  Priscilla  rose.  She  could  not  bear, 
although  she  was  still  unrefreshed  to  stay  in  bed;  and 
she  went  down  to  breakfast  as  usual.  Irene  was  there, 
cutting  some  bread  and  making  tea,  with  one  or  two 
small  pots  on  the  gas-stove,  as  if  an  army  were  being 
fed.  Stephen  was  for  a  moment  writing;  Roy  in  the 
garden  picking  a  rose;  Romeo  watching  him,  stretched 
under  a  shady  bush  with  his  light  fawn  underparts  shin- 
ing. They  all  assembled  at  breakfast,  and  as  the  post- 
man's knock  sounded  Priscilla  blanched.  There  were 
three  letters — two  for  Stephen,  and  one  for  herself.  It 
needed  no  glance  to  see  from  whom  her  letter  came.  It 
was  from  Hilary.     She  could  not  bear  to  read  it  now. 


390  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Later  she  would  read  it.  Meanwhile,  she  must  watch 
Stephen's  face.  .  .  . 

"One's  from  Dorothy,"  he  said,  after  grinning  at  both ; 
"and  the  other's  from  a  man  who  doesn't  like  my  articles 
in  The  Norm  and  thinks  I  ought  to  know  it." 

It  was  Roy  who  laughed.  Stephen  knew  very  well 
that  Priscilla  had  not  opened  her  letter. 

iii 

The  letter,  which  she  opened  when  she  was  alone,  was 
a  hasty  apology.  Hilary  was,  so  he  said,  ashamed  to  have 
allowed  his  feelings  to  mislead  him :  he  was  going  North 
in  the  morning  and  would  not  trouble  again.  But  he 
gave  her  the  address  to  which  he  was  going. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Priscilla,  half  aloud,  "in  case  I  want 
to  write  to  him.  .  .  ." 

She  went  out  into  their  garden,  where  there  were  many 
old  flowers  left  by  earlier  tenants,  such  as  tall  holly- 
hocks and  beautiful  straggling  rose-bushes,  with  brighter 
flowers  bordering  the  narrow  path.  There  were  vege- 
tables also,  behind  a  small  discreet  little  hedge.  It  was 
under  this  hedge  that  Romeo  had  taken  up  his  position 
since  breakfast;  and  he  now  lay  there  in  enviable  peace, 
stretched  at  full  length,  with  every  muscle  relaxed,  ideally 
happy  except  when  a  bird  or  a  butterfly  hovered  tempt- 
ingly near.  For  Romeo  was  not  asleep :  he  was  basking, 
keenly  alive  to  all  that  passed.  When  the  bird  approached 
Romeo's  muscles  would  tighten,  his  tail  fiercely  twitch 
.  .  .  when  it  flew  away  Romeo  hid  his  chagrin  in  a  yawn, 
and  lay  back  once  more.  He  was  enjoying  each  fleeting 
fraction  of  time,  living  in  sensation;  and  when  Priscilla 
came  and  stooped  over  him  he  lazily  rolled  upon  his  back 
and  looked  at  her  comically  over  the  top  of  his  head. 
His  softness,  his  delicate  colouring,  his  extreme  beauty 
of  movement,  all  made  Romeo  an  unusual  little  cat;  but 
he  was  unsurpassed  also  for  a  sense  of  the  ridiculousness 


PRISCILLA'S  JOURNEY  391 

of  any  situation.  So  Priscilla,  strangely  comforted  by 
his  air  of  savoir-vivre ,  tickled  Romeo,  and  felt  very 
much  better.  As  far  as  Hilary  was  concerned,  she  felt 
a  thankfulness  that  it  was  all  over,  settled,  she  felt,  once 
and  for  all  time.  He  would  not  come  back.  But  for 
the  rest?  Only  to  Romeo,  and  such  as  he,  did  life 
present  itself  as  a  continuous  panorama  of  pleasant 
things. 

iv 

An  hour  later  Priscilla  resumed  the  hat  and  the  gloves 
which  she  had  been  forced  so  fatally  to  discard  upon  the 
previous  day.  And,  walking  very  quickly,  she  went  down 
the  little  road  towards  the  "town"  of  Hampstead.  In 
her  hand,  in  the  small  bag  which  she  carried,  was  the 
piece  of  paper  given  her  by  Stephen  the  other  evening. 
She  was  going  to  see  Minnie  Bayley. 

What  she  was  to  say,  what  either  of  them  was  to  say, 
she  could  not  imagine.  Trepidation  grew  as  the  journey 
proceeded.  Of  what  use  was  her  visit  to  be?  What  was 
its  object?  Priscilla  had  no  answer.  She  was  going 
because  Stephen  had  wished  her  to  do  so.  There  were 
still  few  things  for  which  that  was  not  a  sufficient  reason. 
She  had  no  image  of  Minnie.  Minnie  was  simply  there 
across  her  mental  horizon  like  a  little  dark  impalpable 
cloud.  Somewhere,  in  a  secret  corner,  was  an  unwritten 
dossier  containing  inexorably  every  least  detail  of  Min- 
nie's action  gleaned  from  Stephen,  or  from  Dorothy,  or 
from  Roy's  casual  mention.  Often  enough,  Priscilla  had 
examined  this  incriminating  record;  at  first  dismissing 
Minnie  for  life  in  the  brief  word  "horrid" ;  but  later 
dwelling  more  upon  interpretations,  until  she  had  come 
to  a  highly  subtilized  version  of  Minnie's  character  and 
lost  all  certainty  about  it.  Only  the  ignorant  are  positive ; 
and  when  one  sees  even  a  wise  person  definitely  assert- 


392  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

ive  it  is  best  to  assume  that  he  is  either  an  expert  or,  for 
this  occasion  only,  unsure  of  his  facts.  That  is  why  most 
theological  discussion  meets  dogma  with  dogma  and  ends 
in  dust.  And  Priscilla  started  as  the  theologian  here, 
which  will  explain  why  she  was  even  now  puzzled  rather 
than  tolerant.  If  she  had  once  seen  Minnie,  or  if  she 
had  seen  her  photograph,  or  her  dress,  or  heard  her  voice, 
she  would  have  known  exactly  what  her  opinion  was. 
But  there  was  only  report;  and  report  so  confusing  that 
it  seemed  to  have  no  consistency. 

But  as  Priscilla  reached  King's  Cross,  and  Pentonville ; 
when  she  reached  "The  Angel"  and  saw  the  forking 
roads,  and  heard  the  rumbling  of  incessant  traffic,  she 
was  chilled  with  a  dismayed  feeling  of  adventure  beyond 
her  powers.  It  was  like  a  forlorn  hope,  in  which  none 
but  the  sturdy  should  engage.  She  was  bereft  of  the 
support  which  she  would  have  had  in  her  own  home ;  but 
bereft  of  it  of  her  own  deliberate  will  at  the  moment  of 
engaging  to  perform  this  task.  And  she  was  here  because 
she  loved  Stephen — because  Minnie  also  loved  Stephen. 
That  was  her  watchword.  Although  she  shrank,  she  did 
not  gainsay.  She  went  on,  reluctantly,  down  the  City 
Road,  miserably  wondering  about  the  people  who  lived 
in  these  ugly  houses,  wondering  if  they  were  happy,  won- 
dering how  they  could  be  happy,  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
complacency  with  which  the  well-to-do  suppose  all  pov- 
erty to  be  as  natural  as  it  is  inevitable  in  a  capitalist 
society.  Everywhere  she  saw  ugliness,  solemn  ugliness; 
and  in  the  side  streets  she  saw  that  particular  kind  of 
hopeless  shabbiness  which  we  describe  as  squalor.  In 
the  heart  of  this  Minnie  lived;  and  it  was  here  that 
Priscilla  found  her. 


Minnie  was  not  machining.     Her  room  was  silent. 


PRISCILLA'S  JOURNEY  393 

She  sat  by  the  window  sewing,  sometimes  looking  up 
from  her  work  and  out  at  a  patch  of  sunlight.  She  had 
been  whistling  to  herself,  because  she  thought  of  going 
out  for  a  little  while  later  in  the  day;  and  she  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  the  timid  knock  at  her  door.  When  Pris- 
cilla  entered,  Minnie  rose  at  once,  standing  in  the  window. 
She  knew  instantly  who  was  there,  and  stood  like  a  person 
stunned  by  some  loud  noise  or  by  the  sense  of  immediate 
and  inescapable  danger,  looking  directly  at  Priscilla,  with 
the  light  falling  upon  her  face,  which  was  very  pale. 
What  Priscilla  saw  was  a  woman  several  years  older  than 
herself,  very  thin,  with  a  great  deal  of  soft  brown  hair. 
Her  eyes  were  soft,  her  rather  full,  mobile  lips,  when 
they  were  parted,  disclosed  beautifully  perfect  teeth. 
Minnie  was  not  ungraceful;  her  blue  overall  gave  her 
a  fresh  and  attractive  air.  She  looked  startled  and  ex- 
cessively nervous.  What  Minnie  saw  was  a  slighter 
figure  than  her  own,  dressed  in  a  plain  dress  of  a  cream 
colour,  and  a  hat  of  cornflower  blue;  a  girl  obviously  still 
immature,  her  eyes  very  blue  and  clear,  her  complexion 
and  hair  very  fair,  her  manner  wholly  simple,  like  that 
of  a  child.  It  was  as  a  child  that  Priscilla  struck  Minnie, 
in  spite  of  her  gravity  and  noticeable  breeding.  They 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for  an  instant.     Then : 

"I  know  who  you  are,"  said  Minnie.  "You're  Mrs. 
Moore."  She  moved  quickly  and  cleared  her  second 
chair.  "Will  you  sit  down?"  She  did  not  offer  to  shake 
hands.  Priscilla  sat  down,  her  hands  in  her  lap.  She 
felt  breathless,  disarmed  by  Minnie's  self-control  and  the 
almost  protective  kindness  of  her  manner. 

"...  Stephen  told  you  I  would  come,"  she  began. 

"I  didn't  really  believe  him.  It's  kind  of  you."  Minnie 
spoke  awkwardly.  As  she  spoke  Priscilla  saw  that  her 
hands  moved,  that  her  lips  trembled  and  as  it  were  over- 
pronounced  the  words.  But  there  was  no  indication  of 
resentment  or  of  fear.     Priscilla  knew  that  both  their 


394  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

hearts  were  beating  fast :  all  feeling  dropped  away,  and 
in  her  heart  there  moved  a  quick  pity  for  Minnie.  Minnie 
was  at  the  same  time  feeling  a  pity  for  Priscilla.  They 
were  strangers;  they  did  not  understand  one  another; 
they  were  sorry  for  each  other  and  full  of  kind  feeling. 
Having  spoken  once,  they  both  became  afraid,  and  sat 
tongue-tied. 

It  was  again  Minnie  who  began  to  speak. 

"I  always  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "Dorothy 
told  me  about  you.     I  didn't  think  I  ever  should." 

"No,"  Priscilla  acknowledged.  Then,  impulsively,  she 
continued :    "I  wish  you  hadn't  to  live  here." 

"I'm  not  going  to.  Had  to  come  somewhere,  and  I 
know  this  neighbourhood.  You  always  come  back  to 
what  you  know.  You  can't  help  it.  Like  going  home 
to  die." 

They  both  looked  at  each  other  again.  At  each  pause 
they  looked  directly  at  each  other;  and  it  seemed  as 
though  it  brought  them  to  a  standstill.  Priscilla  was 
deeply  aware  of  the  four  oppressive  walls  of  the  room, 
with  their  cheap,  ugly  wall-paper,  and  the  grey  ceiling. 
She  could  see  upon  the  mantelpiece  a  box,  and  beside  it  a 
photograph.  That,  and  a  table  and  the  two  chairs  upon 
which  they  were  sitting,  with  a  low  bed  in  the  corner 
half  hidden  by  a  screen,  was  the  only  furnishing  in  the 
room.  Dominating  all  was  the  sewing-machine,  and 
pieces  of  light-coloured  material  lay  heaped  upon  the 
table,  so  that  the  room  seemed  to  be  all  dark  where  it 
was  not  littered  with  sewing  and  with  pieces  of  cotton 
ready  cut  out  for  machining.  "What  nasty  coloured 
stuff,"  Priscilla  was  thinking.     Her  eyes  strayed. 

"I  expect  you  hate  me,  don't  you  ?  .  .  .  Spoiling  your 
happiness,  and  all,"  said  Minnie  suddenly.  Priscilla  grew 
hot.     The  attack  was  unexpected. 

"Hate  you?"  she  answered.  "No,  no.  I  don't  think 
I  ever  did  that.    You  see,  I  didn't  know  what  you  were 


PRISCILLA'S  JOURNEY  395 

like.  I  might  have  hated  you  then,  I  think.  But  I  never 
did.     Oh,  no.  .  .  ." 

Minnie  gave  a  curious  small  laugh. 

"You  know  what  I'm  like  now,"  she  said. 

"Well,  and  I  came  to  see  whether  I  couldn't  help  you." 
Priscilla  spoke  earnestly :  that  had  been  her  object,  and 
the  talk  had  hitherto  suggested  that  something  quite 
different  had  been  in  her  mind.  "That's  quite  true.  It 
was  the  only  idea — Stephen's  and  mine." 

"Bless  you  for  it !"  cried  Minnie,  in  a  great  tender 
voice  that  was  hardly  her  own,  but  the  voice  of  some 
strong  consciousness  within  her.  "I  don't  wonder  he 
loves  you.  No,  I  don't  wonder.  Not  now.  Though  I 
did  when  I  saw  him.  You  know,  I  feel  so  much  older, 
wickeder  than  you.  I'm  not  wicked,  though :  you  needn't 
think  it.     You  don't  think  it,  I'm  sure." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Priscilla  warmly. 

"What  did  you  think  I  was  going  to  do — when  you 
came  ?    Cry  ?" 

"I  was  wondering  what  I  could  say  to  you." 

"What  did  you  decide?" 

"I  didn't  decide  anything.  But  I  don't  see  what  I  can 
do.     Is  there  anything  at  all?" 

Minnie  considered :  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She 
could  not  speak  for  a  little  while,  and  even  then  her  voice 
had  a  slight  quiver  in  it,  as  though  it  would  have  been 
a  relief  to  cry  aloud. 

"I'm  a  fool,"  she  began.  "I  never  meant  to  cry.  I've 
got  into  the  way  of  it.  You  do  get  into  the  way  of  it 
if  you're  alone.  If  you're  not  very  cheerful."  Her  voice 
was  a  very  pleasant  voice,  though  she  did  not  speak  very 
well.  It  was  not  loud,  nor  was  it  very  sweet ;  but  it  did 
not  grate  upon  the  ear,  and  its  cadences,  although  not 
refined,  were  pretty.  Priscilla's  heart  softened  towards 
her.  Both  were  full  of  this  incommunicable  pity.  It  was 
as  though  to  each  of  them  had  for  this  moment  been 


396  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

revealed  the  other's  sorrowful  heart.  Minnie  wiped  her 
eyes.  "He's  the  only  one  who's  ever  been  kind  to  me," 
she  went  on  soberly.  "I  thought  he  loved  me.  I  was 
.  .  .  well,  I  suppose  I  wanted  him  to  love  me  so  much 
I  made  myself  believe  he  did.  I  don't  think  he  ever 
thought  it — not  for  more  than  five  minutes  anyway.  Not 
that  it  matters  now  what  he  thought.  I  say,  you're  not 
treating  him  badly — you  know,  because  of  me?  You 
didn't  ought  to  do  that." 

"You  said,"  Priscilla  murmured,  very  low,  "you  said 
you  felt  older  than  me.  I've  been  feeling  very  young. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you.  I  don't  know  what's  happening 
to  me.  I  love  him  just  as  much;  but  it's  not  the  same. 
It's  not  all  the  same — as  though  he  and  I  were  different 
people.  Do  you  understand?  Wouldn't  you  feel  as  I 
do?"  She  was  speaking  very  earnestly,  really  opening 
her  heart,  in  spite  of  all. 

"I  suppose  I  don't  expect  as  much  as  you  do,"  said 
Minnie,  rather  dryly.  "I  know  a  bit  more.  But  I'd 
let  Stephen  do  anything  he  liked,  so  long  as  he  came  back 
to  me.  Stephen,  I  would — not  any  other  man  .  .  .  now. 
That  is,  I  mean  ...   I  mean,  you're  his  wife." 

Priscilla  sighed  and  averted  her  eyes  with  the  impulse 
of  hiding  her  disagreement.  She  could  not  agree  to  such 
self-abnegation.  It  was  of  no  use  to  talk  in  this  way 
about  one's  feelings,  which  were  beyond  control.  She 
looked  away,  and  then  back  again.  Minnie  was  observ- 
ing her;  but  this  time  perceptibly  with  less  pity,  less 
sympathy. 

"Oh,  you  think  I  don't  love  him!"  cried  Priscilla, 
fiercely  answering  the  unspoken  message. 

Minnie  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  When  she 
spoke  the  words  came  very  slowly,  almost  with  an  air 
of  irony. 

"I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  do,  though.  Only  you  love 
yourself  a  bit,  don't  you?"  she  asked. 


PRISCILLA'S  JOURNEY  397 

vi 

It  wounded  Priscilla  to  the  quick.  She  flushed  deeply 
and  painfully,  and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Minnie  said  quickly.  "That's 
not  what  I  mean." 

"No.  Very  likely  it's  true.  I'm  afraid  it's  true." 
Priscilla  shook  her  head  gravely. 

"Now  you've  seen  me  do  you  feel  the  same  .  .  .  what 
you  said?" 

Priscilla  hesitated.  The  effect  of  the  simple  inquiry 
was  very  great.  It  was  powerful  relief,  because  it  made 
her  think,  and  it  averted  their  disagreement.  She  looked 
up,  and  smiled  cordially,  in  a  way  that  always  made 
Hilary  Badoureau  draw  a  quick  breath  of  desire. 

"I'm  very  glad  I've  seen  you,"  she  said  deliberately. 
"It's  done  me  a  lot  of  good.  It's  made  me  feel  differ- 
ently altogether.  I  should  like  to  see  you  again  ...  I 
should  like  to.     You  say  you  see  Dorothy?  .  .  ." 

"I  wish  I  was  you,  I  wish  I  was  you!"  startlingly 
cried  Minnie,  and  came  over  to  her  side.  Her  eyes  were 
shining  and  her  lips  were  parted,  so  that  in  spite  of  her 
pallor — perhaps  because  of  it — she  looked  really  beauti- 
ful. Priscilla  half  rose,  and  their  hands  met  and  clasped. 
"I  envy  you — ever  so  much.  You  can  do  such  a  lot,  for 
everybody.  You  can  make  him  happy — if  you  want  to. 
And  you  can  make  me  happy,  by  being  kind  to  me.  All 
sorts  of  things  you  can  do." 

"I  will,  I  will!"  exclaimed  Priscilla,  deeply  moved  by 
the  appeal. 

"But  be  kind  to  him,"  Minnie  urged.  "It  doesn't 
matter  about  me.  I'm  nothing.  I'm  only  a  miserable 
woman  who's  got  nothing  to  live  for.  But  Stephen's 
different.  He's  a  man  in  a  million.  And  if  .  .  .  When 
I  saw  him  he  looked  so  ill.  Worried,  he  was.  You 
ought  to  look  after  him.     That's  what  we're  for,  you 


398  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

know — women — though  it  takes  us  a  long  time  to  learn. 
Just  think  of  me — the  mistakes  I've  made.  Awful  things. 
I  never  ought  to  have  married  my  husband.  I've  stayed 
with  him  seven  years,  and  now  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer, 
because  he's  such  a  boozer.  But  I've  stayed  with  him  till 
I  knew  it  was  no  good.  And  when  I  think  of  you  and 
Stephen  I  think  to  myself  how  lucky  you  are  to  have  him. 
That's  why  I  envy  you.  You've  got  him  all  the  time,  and 
the  way  he  loves  you — if  he  loved  me  a  quarter  of  that 
I  should  be  half  dead  with  joy.  It's  easy  work  being 
Stephen's  wife — for  you.  It  wouldn't  be  easy  for  me. 
I  couldn't  do  it.  I'm  not  good  enough,  and  I'm  not  a 
lady.     But  for  you — it's  the  chance  of  a  lifetime!" 

She  was  half  laughing  and  half  crying  as  she  spoke, 
still  holding  Priscilla  tightly  by  the  hand  and  emphasiz- 
ing her  words  by  means  of  urgent  jerks.  But  when 
Priscilla  looked  a  little  up  and  into  Minnie's  face  she 
saw  that  every  part  of  the  speech  was  meant  in  earnest, 
and  that  Minnie  was  speaking  right  out  of  her  heart, 
from  her  passionate  love  for  Stephen.  Moved  beyond 
words  Priscilla  quickly  put  her  face  up  and  kissed 
Minnie's  cheek. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII:  THE  OLD  MAN 


WHEN  Stephen  left  the  cottage  that  morning  with 
Roy  he  expected  that  they  would  both  go  to  the 
British  Museum.  There  he  purposed  introducing  Roy 
to  the  marvels  of  the  Egyptian  section  and  leaving  him 
to  find  his  way  about  the  building  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  while  Stephen  himself  went  into  the  Reading- 
room  and  made  up  for  the  days  of  semi-holiday  which 
he  had  spent  at  home.  He  did  not  expect  that  the  day 
was  instead  to  be  one  of  the  most  remarkable  in  his  life, 
nor  that  it  would  see  the  end  of  his  chief  troubles.  He 
thought  of  it  as  a  day  much  like  other  days,  crowded 
with  work,  lightened  with  sunshine,  but  still  oppressed 
by  the  feeling  of  uncertainty  which  had  grown  to  be  his 
settled  habit.  Therefore  he  was  astonished  at  what 
happened. 

He  and  Roy  were  walking  down  the  pretty  road  in 
which  stood  the  cottage,  when  they  met  a  rather  roughly 
dressed  man,  who  was  hurrying  up  towards  them  from 
the  direction  of  Mount  Vernon.  The  man  was  looking 
anxiously  at  the  houses  upon  his  right,  with  a  rather 
perplexed  expression ;  and  as  he  came  abreast  of  the  two 
Moores  he  wavered,  half  inclined  to  speak  to  them. 
Something  apparently  decided  him  to  do  so,  for  he 
stopped,  his  heel  grinding  in  the  gravel. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said  in  a  rather  Cockney  voice.  "Do 
you  know  anybody  living  here  of  the  name  of  Moore?" 

"That's  our  name,"  answered  Stephen. 

"Wasn't  sure  of  the  number,"  said  the  man.  "They 
say  he  diddin  know  it  'imself.  Asked  'im,  but  he  diddin 
know  it.    Just  your  name,  like,  and  where  it  was.  .  .  ." 

399 


400  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

Stephen  was  mystified  at  the  man's  words,  and  looked 
at  him  questioningly.  The  man  was  a  very  brown  man 
who  might  have  been  a  gardener  or  a  coachman,  and  his 
speech  was  thick  and  difficult  to  follow. 

"Who  is  it  you're  speaking  about?"  asked  Stephen. 
"Who  sent  you?" 

"Mr.  Vuggage  of  The  Towers.  .  .  .  Last  night  he  was 
comin'  down  Heath  Street  in  the  car,  drivin'  'imself,  and 
this  old  gentleman  ran  into  it.  Fair  old  smash-up,  sir. 
Old  gentleman  was  very  badly  hurt,  and  they  diddin  know 
where  'e  belonged  till  this  morning.  He's  only  just  come 
round  a  bit,  and  they  asked  him  where  he  lived,  and  he 
couldn't  remember.  .  .  ."  As  the  man  was  speaking  he 
had  turned  and  they  were  unquestioningly  going  with 
him,  so  that  this  explanation  was  jerkingly  given  as  they 
walked.  "Mr.  Vuggage  picked  him  up  and  took  him 
along  to  the  'ouse.  And  there  he  is.  It  was  almost  out- 
side, sir;  not  far  away.  Mr.  Vuggage  is  a  doctor,  sir. 
He's  been  lookin'  after  him  himself.  Streets  are  so  dark 
at  night,  and  that's  a  nasty  tricky  corner.  Well,  I'm 
very  glad  I  found  you  so  quick.  .  .  ." 

"He's  been  unconscious  ?"  Stephen  questioned. 

"So  they  say,  sir.  They  said  to  me  I  was  to  tell  you 
he's  only  just  come  to." 

"Badly  hurt?" 

"I  believe  so.  .  .  .  Say  he's  all  bandaged." 

They  spoke  no  more  until  they  arrived  at  the  doctor's 
house,  and  were  ushered  into  a  room.  The  man  left 
them,  and  they  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  stare  at  the 
handsome  mantelpiece  of  black  marble,  and  the  gravely 
ticking  clock  above  it,  and  the  mahogany  sideboard  with 
its  adornments  of  silver  bowls  and  cut  glass.  It  was  a 
very  typically  comfortable  room,  and  an  old  carroty  cat 
of  immense  size  lay  upon  the  shaggy  hearthrug  of  ani- 
mal's fur.  In  the  window  stood  a  bureau;  and  a  big 
dining-table  occupied  the  middle  of  the  room.     It  was  a 


THE  OLD  MAN  401 

very  dull  place,  so  that  they  only  had  this  impression  of 
its  solidity  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  Uneasily  they 
waited,  until  the  clock  began  in  a  silver  tone  to  chime 
ten. 

ii 

A  moment  later  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Vuggage 
came  in,  looking  very  grave,  and  giving  each  of  them  a 
keen  glance  from  his  very  shrewd  eyes. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Moore,"  he  said.  "Good  morn- 
ing. Your  father's  had  a  rather  nasty  accident.  .  .  .  I'm 
afraid  I'm  partly  responsible,  because  I  was  driving  my 
own  car  at  the  time.  Your  father  was  knocked  down  and 
badly  cut  about.  He  was  stunned.  I  brought  him  in 
here  as  it  was  so  near,  and  I  thought  I  might  be  able 
to  do  something  for  him.  Now  I'm  afraid  I  can't  do 
anything.  .  .  ." 

"You  mean,  he's  too  badly  hurt?"  Stephen  asked. 

"Yes.  He's  been  unconscious  for  several  hours;  but 
he's  conscious  now.  He  asked  for  you.  I  take  it  you 
are  Mr.  Stephen  Moore?  I  doubt  if  he'll  last  many 
hours.  Of  course  he  can't  be  moved.  It's  out  of  the 
question.  I  don't  think  I  can  do  anything  for  him.  Wish 
I  could.  In  any  case  I  question  if  he'd  have  lasted  much 
longer."     He  looked  piercingly  at  Stephen. 

"I  thought  he  seemed  very  much  aged  when  I  last 
saw  him,"  Stephen  said. 

"How  old  is  he — sixty,  sixty-two?" 

"About  that." 

"He's  been  killing  himself.     You  know?" 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Vuggage  nodded  again  as  Stephen  made  the 
admission. 

"Well,  you  know  where  I  am,"  he  said  in  a  resolute 
tone.  "I  reported  the  accident,  at  once;  and  an  inspector 
has   all   the   particulars.      I've   done    whatever    I   could 


402  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

medically,  and  I've  sent  for  you.  If  I  may  say  so,  with- 
out seeming  to  shirk  responsibility  for  my  share  in  the 
accident,  I  should  imagine  that  he  was  .  .  .  that  he 
stumbled  in  crossing  the  road,  and  fell  violently  in  front 
of  the  car.  It  was  going  at  a  fair  speed,  of  course ;  but 
in  the  ordinary  way  a  man  might  have  avoided  a  serious 
accident.  Of  course  I  had  the  brakes  on.  I  stopped  at 
once.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  your  father  ?  Come 
this  way,  please.    Excuse  me.  .  .  ." 


in 

In  a  room  on  the  same  floor,  overlooking  the  garden, 
a  bed  had  been  fitted  up,  and  upon  it,  heavily  bandaged, 
as  the  messenger  had  indicated,  lay  the  old  man,  groaning 
heavily.  They  heard  him  groaning  before  they  reached 
the  room — in  deep,  hoarse  groans — and  when  they  were 
beside  him  they  could  hear  that  he  was  ejaculating  as 
well  as  groaning.  He  was  speaking  Roy's  name  and 
Stephen's.  Over  and  over  again  he  said  the  names, 
sometimes  adding  a  word  or  a  phrase — such  as  "Ah,  my 
boy  .  .  .  Stephen,"  or  "My  baby  Roy  .  .  ." — which 
showed  how  his  mind  was  running  on  familiar  thoughts, 
brokenly  turning  them  and  repeating  them  in  disturbed 
soliloquy.  His  hands,  which  lay  uninjured  on  top  of  the 
coverlet,  were  never  still.  The  fingers  were  clenched  and 
twisted  constantly,  so  that  the  knotted  veins  showed  on 
the  back  of  the  hands.  Stephen  had  not  realized  before 
that  his  father's  hands  were  those  of  an  old  man,  the 
veins  discoloured  and  the  skin  yellow  as  old  ivory.  And 
the  old  man  continued  to  repeat  his  name.  He  had  not 
yet  seen  them,  for  he  could  not  move  his  head  at  all. 
His  eyes  seemed  to  be  fixed  upon  the  ceiling,  so  dim  in 
this  darkened  room.     They  could  see  his  lips  moving. 

Stephen  went  forward,  and  together  he  and  Roy  stood 
beside  the  bed,  so  that  they  were  at  last  seen  and  recog- 


THE  OLD  MAN  403 

nized.  The  old  man  ceased  his  ejaculations,  and  for  a 
moment  continued  to  groan,  closing  his  eyes  when  he  did 
so.  Then  he  opened  them  again,  looking  up  into  the 
faces  of  those  above  him. 

"Who's  there?"  he  demanded  in  a  breathless  voice. 

"Roy  and  Stephen." 

"Stephen,"  said  the  old  man.  "Roy.  You've  come!" 
He  seemed  to  have  so  little  strength,  and  so  little  power 
of  speaking,  that  his  eyes  closed  in  exhaustion. 

"Is  there  anything  we  can  do  for  you?"  Stephen  asked 
very  distinctly.     "Anything  at  all?" 

The  old  man  took  no  notice  of  the  inquiry.  His  eyes 
remained  closed;  he  groaned  again.  Stephen  saw  lying 
before  him  the  dumb  and  helpless  shell  of  his  father,  a 
man  whose  life  was  far  spent — not  the  strong  and  un- 
scrupulous man  whom  he  had  always  feared  and  despised. 
His  father  had  so  changed,  this  recumbent  figure  was  so 
different  from  the  rather  sinister  figure  which  he  had 
carried  in  his  mind's  eye,  that  he  could  not  have  recalled 
his  enmity.  Only  he  felt  intensely  curious,  observant  of 
every  detail.  He  saw  Roy  impressed  by  the  scene,  bend- 
ing farther  than  himself  over  the  bed,  his  face  white  with 
the  shock,  his  whole  carriage  betokening  sensibility.  He 
saw  the  doctor  standing  opposite,  a  little  impatient.  A 
nurse  sat  at  a  small  table  a  little  distance  from  the  bed. 
The  room  was  rather  dark;  there  was  a  cooling  and 
pungent  smell  of  medical  dressing  in  the  atmosphere. 
Slowly  Stephen's  mind  concentrated  upon  the  helpless 
figure  under-  his  eye,  upon  those  twisting  fingers,  upon 
that  pale  face  and  bandaged  head.  He  did  not  think 
about  what  his  father  had  been,  nor  about  his  mother, 
nor  about  any  part  of  their  life  in  Islington.  He  thought 
only  of  this  wreck,  watching  in  silence  the  moving  lips, 
hearing  almost  unmoved  the  groans  that  proceeded  from 
them.  He  it  was  who  saw  that  the  old  man  was  looking 
up  at  him  through  his  eyelashes. 


404  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

"You  know  we're  here,  don't  you?"  Stephen  said — 
half  as  an  interrogation,  although  his  tone  was  not  that 
of  a  question.  The  old  man  did  not  answer.  He  remained 
still  for  a  longer  time. 

"I'm  dying,"  he  said  suddenly.  It  sent  a  shock 
through  both  his  boys. 

"No,  daddy!"  cried  Roy,  in  a  low  voice,  urgently. 
"No !" 

A  faint  smile  curved  the  old  man's  lips. 

"D'you  hear  that,  Stephen?"  he  gasped.  "After  all 
you've  done!" 

"Oh,  hush!"  whispered  Stephen.  "If  you're  .  .  ." 
He  was  appalled  at  the  retention  of  vindictiveness  even 
here,  when  his  own  mind  was  so  free  from  hatred.  Then 
he  became  ashamed  of  his  protest. 

"After  all  you've  done!"  repeated  the  old  man.  "My 
Roy!  my  little  boy  .  .  ." 

Roy  took  one  of  the  moving  hands  and  held  it. 

"I'm  here,  father,"  he  said. 

"Not  so  hard,  my  boy,"  whispered  the  old  man.  "Eh, 
he  loves  me,  this  boy!"  His  eyes  turned  and  he 
looked  at  the  doctor.  "This  one,"  he  went  breathlessly 
on.  "Not  the  other  one.  Not  the  other  one."  For  a 
moment  or  two  he  lay  still.  Then  his  free  hand  moved 
impatiently,  and  his  lips  moved  without  sound. 

"He  wants  you  to  let  go  his  hand,"  the  doctor  whis- 
pered to  Roy,  who  drew  back  and  away  from  the  bed. 

"The  mighty  Stephen,"  muttered  the  old  man.  His 
lips  parted,  and  showed  his  gums.  How  old  he  looked ! 
"Well,  my  boy,  I  've  had  a  happy  life."  He  breathed 
heavily  again.  "It's  over  now.  It  doesn't  matter,  now 
it's  over.  But  I  like  ...  to  see  your  face  ...  up 
there,  Stephen.  It  reminds  me."  He  groaned;  his  eyes 
closed.  "I  wanted  .  .  .  wanted  to  see  you.  If  I  could 
sit  up.  .  .  ." 

"No !"  they  told  him.    He  lay  for  several  minutes  with 


THE  OLD  MAN  405 

his  eyes  closed,  and  the  doctor  exchanged  a  glance  with 
Stephen.  Yet  the  old  man  did  not  seem  to  be  dying: 
his  mind  was  clear,  his  speech,  although  indistinct, 
was  still  intelligible. 

"Stephen,"  said  the  smiling  lips.  "I  wanted  to  .  .  . 
Bend  down,  Stephen."  Stephen  put  his  head  lower — so 
low  that  he  could  not  see  the  old  man's  eyes,  but  could 
only  watch  his  mouth.  There  was  another  pause.  Then 
the  old  man  seemed  to  give  a  chuckle  which  was  checked 
by  another  fierce  groan.  Stephen  felt  his  father's  breath 
upon  his  cheek.  "An  irony,  Stephen,"  went  on  the  old 
man  in  a  faint  voice.  "An  irony.  The  impeccable 
Stephen  .  .  .  you  understand  ...  a  letter  .  .  .  poor 
Bayley.  The  impeccable  .  .  .  the  incorruptible  .  .  . 
Paid  back  ...  in  his  own  coin  .  .  ."  Still  the  old  man's 
eyes  peered  at  Stephen  through  their  long  lashes,  merci- 
lessly. "Own  coin,"  gasped  the  old  man.  "His  own 
wife  .  .  .  another  man's  arms.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand 
what  I  mean?"  Then  in  a  dreadful  whisper  he  hissed 
one  word  into  Stephen's  ear.     "Cuckold!"  he  said. 


IV 

Stephen  started  up  for  a  moment.  Then  he  spoke 
deliberately  in  reply. 

"If  you're  dying,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "you  might 
be  better  employed.  There's  nothing  you  want  us  to 
do?"  He  was  trembling,  but  he  would  not  let  the  old 
man  see  that  he  was  trembling.  He  had  too  much  pride 
to  let  the  old  man  see  that  he  had  been  hurt. 

"Only  to  go,"  said  the  old  man  clearly.  "I  don't 
want  you !"  He  groaned  again,  and  seemed  to  struggle 
a  little.  "I've  always  hated  you,  Stephen.  .  .  ."  And 
with  that  he  fell  into  silence  again,  and  became  oblivious 
of  them.  His  lips  only  now  uttered  the  ejaculations  they 
had  heard  upon  their  first  entry,  punctuated  by  the  low 


406  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

groans  which  he  could  not  have  restrained  even  if  he  had 
attempted  to  do  so. 

The  doctor  looked  at  Stephen. 

"I  must  be  here,"  he  said.  "There's  no  sense  in  your 
staying.  Except  for  .  .  .  Unless  you  wish  to  do  so. 
You'll  get  no  more  from  him.  You'd  better  go  home. 
If  there's  a  change  I'll  send  up  for  you.  He  may  last 
twenty-four  hours.     I'll  let  you  know." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  door,  and  they  both  followed 
him.  Even  Roy  made  no  attempt  to  stay.  They  left 
the  doctor  at  his  front  door,  and  turned  away  up  the  hill 
again  to  the  cottage. 

"What  was  that  he  said  to  you?"  asked  Roy  in  a  dazed 
voice.     "I  didn't  hear." 

"Oh,  nothing,"  Stephen  returned.  "Nothing  you'd 
appreciate." 

Roy  sighed,  and  asked  no  more. 

Two  hours  later,  a  few  minutes  before  Priscilla 
returned  from  seeing  Minnie  Bayley,  Stephen  received  a 
message  to  say  that  the  old  man  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXIX:  THE  LAST 


ROY  was  at  home  when  Priscilla  arrived ;  but  Stephen 
had  hurried  down  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Vuggage  on 
receipt  of  the  doctor's  message.  It  was  thus  from  Roy 
that  Priscilla  heard  the  account  of  all  that  had  happened 
during  the  morning.  It  took  her  breath  away.  Her  first 
thought  was  a  wild  hope.  "Oh,  if  he's  said  nothing!" 
She  was  terrified  of  the  old  man.  To  tell  Stephen  of  her 
struggle  with  Hilary,  of  its  ending,  of  that  white  face  at 
the  window — that  was  one  thing.  To  combat  by  explana- 
tion a  tale  told  by  hostile  lips  was  another.  It  was  enough 
to  force  a  faint  sound  of  fear  from  her.  If  she  could 
only  be  sure!  If  there  was  to  be  a  painful  explanation, 
then  she  trusted  that  Stephen  might  have  learned  nothing 
that  would  prejudice  him  against  her.  Of  what  use  was 
innocence  before  calumny?  She  could  see  it  all:  she 
could  see  the  old  man's  malignant  delight  at  sowing  mis- 
trust. Now  at  last  she  recognized  Stephen's  hatred  of  his 
father,  his  desire  to  prevent  the  old  man's  mischief- 
making  talent  from  enjoying  its  due  triumph.  The 
understanding  made  her  nerves  quiver.  Did  Stephen's 
love  stand  true ?  Did  he  still  believe  in  her?  Or  was  his 
jealousy,  already  aroused,  to  lay  him  open  to  believe  a 
charge  against  her?  She  was  innocent.  Was  that 
sufficient  shield? 

Priscilla  knew  that  for  Stephen  the  old  man's  death 
spelt  freedom  from  an  intolerable  bondage.  But  for 
herself  might  it  not  mean  the  loss  of  Stephen's  love? 

407 


408  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

If  the  old  man  had  spoken!  He  could  say  he  had  seen 
her  in  Hilary's  arms.  It  was  true.  If  Stephen  asked 
her  only — as  she  had  asked  him  whether  he  was  afraid 
of  Hilary — whether  the  facts  were  so,  she  could  not  deny. 
She  could  only  explain.  Explain !  How  explain  ?  She 
could  imagine  Stephen  saying:  "Yes,  but  is  it  true?" 
She  had  no  defence.  She  was  guilty  thus  far.  She  had 
been  thoughtless,  had  truly  welcomed  Hilary,  had  not 
discouraged  his  visits.  That  was  criminal,  as  she  now 
saw.  She  had  done  in  innocence,  or  in  ignorance,  that 
which  she  now  saw  in  the  glaring  light  of  retrospect. 
And  yet  Stephen  might  refuse  to  believe  his  father.  He 
might  cling  to  his  trust  in  her.  The  old  man  might  not 
have  spoken,  as  he  certainly  had  not  written.  That  was . 
her  hope.  If  she  might  only  narrate  the  event  to  Stephen 
all  would  be  well.  He  would  understand.  But  if  not — 
would  he  then  understand  ?  In  ordinary  times,  he  would 
certainly  be  displeased;  he  might  blame  her.  But  now? 
Had  he  that  generosity,  that  confidence  in  her? 

It  came  to  Priscilla  that  she  was  asking  to  be  under- 
stood, to  be  trusted,  as  Stephen  had  asked  to  be  under- 
stood and  to  be  trusted.  The  very  difference  between 
their  cases  made  the  similarity  strike  her  the  more  nearly. 
Stephen  had  not  asked  forgiveness :  to  him  the  honest 
narration  of  a  fault  had  seemed  in  itself  the  best  claim 
upon  her  charity.  And  to  Priscilla  now  the  desire  that 
she  might  not  be  put  in  the  wrong  was  paramount.  In 
each  case  the  old  man  was  the  danger,  the  one  from  whom 
came  the  vital  threat !  It  was  impossible  that  she  should 
fail  to  feel  afraid.  She  had  only  once  before  been  in  the 
wrong  in  her  relations  with  Stephen.  Only  once !  Had 
she  not  been  in  the  wrong  more  recently?  He  did  not 
think  so,  except  in  so  far  as  she  had  tried  to  force  herself 
to  show  no  difference  in  her  behaviour.  Could  she  herself 
remain  equally  content?  It  was  not  only  Stephen's 
feeling  that  mattered.    Her  own  was  fully  as  important. 


THE  LAST  409 

At  that  moment,  in  the  middle  of  her  fear,  Priscilla 
despised  herself. 


In  this  state  of  agitation  she  awaited  Stephen's  return. 
She  longed  for  it  and  she  dreaded  it.  She  was  so  excited 
that  she  had  no  impulse  to  think  what  she  would  say  to 
him.  But  that  she  would  explain  to  him  that  day  she 
was  determined.  Insensibly  she  had  been  very  much 
influenced  by  her  talk  with  Minnie.  She  did  not  for  a 
single  moment  accept  Minnie's  attitude  of  all- forgiveness. 
It  was  not  a  question,  it  never  had  been  a  question,  of 
forgiveness.  Stephen  had  not  asked  to  be  forgiven.  It 
was  a  mere  technical  term  used  by  men  who  deceived 
their  wives.  All  Stephen  had  asked  was  that  she  should 
remember  the  circumstances  of  his  fault ;  that  she  should 
understand  his  reason — his  admittedly  selfish  reason — 
for  keeping  silent  during  their  engagement;  that  she 
should  recognize  his  motive  for  concealing  the  nature  of 
the  old  man's  threat  upon  their  honeymoon.  She  had 
seen  Minnie,  and  she  thought  she  could  make  great  allow- 
ances with  sympathy;  she  was  almost  eager  to  believe 
that  her  own  father  had  foreseen  the  effect  upon  her  of 
disclosure  and  advised  its  postponement — though  that  she 
could  not,  and  would  never,  forgive ;  and  she  was  already 
sure  that  Stephen's  one  desire  upon  their  honeymoon 
had  been  her  happiness.  She  did  not  palliate ;  she  tried 
to  see  clearly  and  to  admit  candidly  that  her  lover  had 
been  unwillingly  in  fault.  Therefore,  for  her  own  part, 
having  been  through  a  fire  of  pain,  she  had  learned  that 
her  love  for  Stephen  was  stronger  than  her  pride.  She 
could  not  feel  the  same :  she  nevertheless  loved  him  above 
all  men  and  believed  once  more  wholly  and  without  shame 
in  his  love  and  his  honesty. 

What  would  Stephen  think  of  her?  It  gave  Priscilla 
great  distress  to  think  of  herself  as  helpless  to  plead  her 


410  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

innocence  in  face  of  any  malign  accusation  from  the  old 
man.  That  he  had  stolen  to  the  window  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  Roy  she  did  not  doubt.  It  was  clear  to  her,  after 
the  encounter  at  night  in  their  front  garden,  that  he 
would  do  such  a  thing.  He  really  loved  Roy — he  craved 
for  the  sight  of  him,  as  mothers  are  said  to  do  if  they 
are  separated  from  their  children.  Could  she  not  under- 
stand even  the  old  man  ?  In  her  present  excitement  that 
was  beyond  her.  She  was  too  much  afraid  of  what  he 
might  before  his  death  have  said  of  her.  How  she  longed 
for  Stephen's  return! 

iii 

At  last  he  came,  and  Priscilla  vainly  scanned  his 
unreadable  face.  She  saw  him  sitting  at  the  table,  very 
grave  and  sturdy,  with  his  dark  hair  crisping  above  his 
ears,  and  the  little  wrinkles  about  his  mouth  and  eyes 
cut  deep  with  years  of  endurance.  But  he  did  not  frown. 
His  face  was  serious  at  all  times ;  he  laughed  too  seldom ; 
even  his  smile  was  so  rare  that  it  lighted  his  face  with 
a  great  boyish  and  unlooked-for  charm.  On  this  day 
he  was  more  than  usually  grave;  but  he  looked  at  her 
always  with  a  kindness  that  had  no  reproof,  and,  better 
still,  no  accusation  behind  it.  They  ate  their  very  simple 
lunch  to  the  accompaniment  of  spasmodic  talk  in  which 
Roy  more  freely  joined.  From  him  Priscilla  heard  fur- 
ther details  than  those  which  he  had  already  supplied. 
From  Stephen  there  came  only  the  information  that  he 
had  telephoned  to  David  in  order  that  David,  if  he  saw  fit, 
might  break  the  news  to  Dorothy.  That  was  Stephen's 
only  fresh  contribution,  and  it  represented  an  action  of 
which  she  approved. 

"What  shall  I  do  this  afternoon?"  asked  Roy  of 
Stephen.  "Makes  you  feel  rotten  to  think  of  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated,  unable  to  finish  his  speech. 


THE  LAST  411 

"What  were  you  going  to  do?"  Stephen  questioned. 
"You  can't  do  anything  more  about  him.  I  shall  have 
to  go  down  to  Islington,  and  you  can  come  with  me  if 
you  like;  but  I  shan't  go  until  after  tea." 

"I  was  going  to  cricket,"  murmured  Roy,  fiddling  with 
a  crumb. 

"Then  I  should  still  go."  Stephen  glanced  at  Priscilla. 
"Unless  you  feel  badly." 

"Oh  .  .  ."  said  Roy  ingenuously.  "Oh,  no,  I  don't. 
.  .  .  Not  very  bad."  And  he  left  them  a  few  minutes 
after  lunch,  since  wherever  he  went  he  would  be  thinking 
of  the  cricket  and  not  of  the  old  man. 

When  Stephen  was  alone  with  Priscilla  he  began  to 
smoke,  quietly  puffing  for  some  time  at  his  solid  little 
pipe.  And  Priscilla  sat  opposite  to  him  in  the  other  arm- 
chair, on  tenterhooks  lest  his  first  words  should  be  those 
of  accusation.  She  felt  that  her  cheeks  were  hot,  and 
her  heart  heavy  as  lead.  Yet  his  first  words  were  not 
as  she  had  feared :  they  were,  on  the  contrary,  upon  quite 
another  topic. 

"I  sent  David  my  first  chapter  the  night  before  last," 
he  puffed ;  "and  when  I  spoke  to  him  over  the  telephone 
just  now  he  thought  I  was  ringing  up  about  that.  He 
says  he's  delighted." 

"Splendid !"  said  Priscilla  quickly. 

Stephen  went  on  puffing  slowly,  and  she  watched  in  a 
state  of  fascination  the  thin  bursts  of  grey  smoke  from 
his  mouth  and  the  climbing  blue  curls  from  the  bowl  of 
his  pipe.  Her  heart  had  become  less  heavy,  but  she  was 
conscious  of  its  rapid  beating.    Her  breath  came  quickly. 

"I  was  glad,"  Stephen  added.  "I  suppose  he'd  say  if 
he  didn't  really  like  it.  .  .  ." 

"Stephen !"  began  Priscilla,  in  an  unsteady  voice.  "I 
went  to  see  Minnie  this  morning." 

There  was  a  little  shock  in  the  atmosphere,  and  she 
knew  from  the  slight  movement  of  his  pipe  that  Stephen's 


412  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

teeth  had  clenched  more  tightly  than  before  upon   its 
black  and  solid  stem. 

iv 

But  just  at  that  moment  their  talk  was  interrupted  by 
an  extraordinary  incident.  There  came,  from  Romeo's 
covered  basket  near  the  fireplace,  three  piercing  squeaks. 
Eee-wee-weew !  said  a  strange  voice,  like  the  voice  of  a 
mouse. 

"Whatever' s  that?"  exclaimed  Priscilla,  blanching. 

"Funny!"  Stephen  rose  and  went  to  the  basket. 
Together  they  knelt  and  folded  back  the  soft  cover,  and 
were  transfixed  with  astonishment.  Within,  purring 
loudly,  with  his  paws  opening  and  shutting  in  ecstasy,  lay 
Romeo.  But  along  with  him,  with  long  horrid  little 
black  paws  spread  out  and  paddling,  was  a  tiny  creature 
of  the  same  species  as  Romeo!  Horror  seized  both  the 
onlookers. 

"Oh,  Romie!"  cried  Priscilla  in  consternation.  "How 
could  you !" 

"A  single  kitten!"  Stephen  said.  "Is  that  possible? 
I  suppose  so;  but  how  amazing!  Did  you  expect  it?" 
He  turned,  almost  accusingly,  to  Priscilla. 

"Never !  Romeo,  I'm  ashamed  of  you !"  Priscilla's 
eyes  had  filled  with  tears.  Romeo,  with  all  the  beaming 
pride  of  the  little  mother-cat,  stretched  himself  more 
comfortably,  his  eyes  shining  and  inviting  their  praise. 
He  did  not  realize  his  faux  pas.  He  did  not  understand 
that  he  had  fallen  from  grace  by  being  a  normal  little  cat. 
To  him  this  event  was  a  matter  of  pure  joy. 

Priscilla  turned  back  to  Stephen.  He  took  her  hand 
as  both  of  them  knelt  by  the  cradle  of  this  solitary  son  of 
Romeo. 

"This  is  because  he  was  left!"  she  said  dismally.  "He 
must  have  been  demoralized." 

Stephen  comforted  her. 


THE  LAST  413 

"Many  people,"  he  said,  "would  like  to  own  Romeo's 
kitten.  Don't  worry,  dear.  It's  only  one.  Romeo,"  he 
went  on,  addressing  the  complacent  mother,  "she's  really 
very  delighted  with  you.  She's  proud  of  you.  And  so 
am  I." 

Romeo  smiled  upon  them  inscrutably,  and  moving  his 
head  looked  irresistibly  at  them  over  the  top  of  it.  The 
kitten  remained  busily  silent. 


It  all  came  more  easily  then.  Priscilla,  who  had  been 
really  moved  by  all  the  side-thoughts  provoked  by 
Romeo's  accouchement,  was  able  to  speak  clearly,  without 
trembling.  It  gave  her  confidence  to  feel  from  Stephen's 
manner  that  she  had  everything  to  tell,  nothing  to 
answer.  She  described  her  talk  with  Minnie,  and  dwelt 
at  length  upon  her  feeling,  her  half-formed  plan  for 
helping  Minnie,  her  determination  to  regard  Minnie  as 
one  to  whom  kindness  was  due.  Stephen  listened  in  most 
attentive  silence,  merely  nodding  at  times;  and  when 
she  had  finished  he  smiled  in  appreciation.  But  with- 
out waiting  for  him  to  express  approval,  Priscilla 
hurried  on. 

"And  Stephen,"  she  said,  "yesterday  afternoon  Hilary 
came.  .  .  ." 

Again  he  slightly  stiffened  and  she  saw  his  eyes  take  a 
deeper  colour  of  regard,  as  though  he  were  giving  her  a 
kind  of  attention  more  urgent  even  than  she  had  had 
before. 

"So  he  came,"  Stephen  slowly  prompted. 

She  told  him  of  the  scene  with  Hilary.  She  told  him 
of  the  exact  happenings,  from  their  beginning  to  that 
end  of  horror  when  she  had  seen  the  old  man's  white 
face  pressed  against  the  window.  Stephen  continued  to 
sit  opposite  to  her,  and  she  was  aware  that  he  continued 


414  THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

to  smoke,  his  face  remaining  to  all  appearances  wholly 
impassive,  whatever  his  feelings  might  be. 

"I  was  afraid,"  faltered  Priscilla.  "I  was  afraid  .  .  . 
that  he  might  have  written  to  you.  But  he  didn't  .  .  . 
because  .  .  .  And  then  I  was  afraid  he  might  have — 
just  for  malice,  though  it  was  wrong  of  me  to  think 
that — he  might  have  ...  It  was  hateful  of  me  to  think 
such  a  thing.  .  .  ." 

"You  thought  the  old  man  might  have  tried  to  make 
me  think  .  .  .  tried  to  make  mischief  between  you  and 
me?"  inquired  Stephen  in  a  grave  voice. 

Priscilla  nodded.  Stephen  sat  in  silence  looking  at  her, 
as  though  he  were  thinking  deeply  of  what  she  had  said. 

"I  was  very  afraid,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  to  tell  you 
how  everything  happened.  I  was  afraid  you  might  .  .  ." 
She  faltered.  "Might  have  been,  in  some  way,  set 
against  me.  .  .  ." 

"Could  you  believe  that?"  he  asked,  very  gently.  "My 
dearest  .  .  ." 

Priscilla  looked  up :  their  eyes  met.  Both  rose,  and 
their  hands  were  joined;  she  was  in  his  arms. 

"You  believe  me?"  Priscilla  said.  "I  love  you  alto- 
gether." Her  eyes  were  bright  now  with  the  grave 
boldness  of  a  girl  truly  in  love. 

"Are  you  happy  again?"  he  begged. 

"Always." 

"Whatever  happens  ?" 

Priscilla  allowed  him  to  kiss  her,  and  made  no  reply 
but  to  offer  her  lips. 

To  have  recovered  that  old  happiness,  that  content  in 
him,  that  feeling  that  they  had  no  longer  any  secrets, 
was  for  Priscilla  to  return  to  her  old  allegiance.  To 
Priscilla  nothing  that  might  come  would  disturb  the 
profound  serenity  of  her  love.  Suffering  might  come — 
anxiety,  and  the  dread  of  lo'ss — but  with  restored  con- 
fidence between  them  she  could   face  with  unflinching 


THE  LAST  415 

pride  whatever  sorrow  the  world  might  send.  That 
her  resolute  heart  should  have  its  pain  we  who  live  in 
the  present  may  well  believe;  but  that  Priscilla  endured 
unchanged,  that  at  least  we  shall  do  her  the  justice  to 
imagine. 

THE  END 


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